The Steward's Tale
by plasticChevy
Summary: Rated R for violence. AU story. Aragorn leaves Gondor in his Steward's care, and Boromir falls into a new kind of darkness from which he must rescue himself. Sequel to The Captain and the King.
1. Progress

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Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I have finally gotten off the stick and begun part two of my Boromir Saga. If you have not read "The Captain and the King," you may find the setup for "The Steward's Tale" a bit confusing. You will not, for instance, have a clue how Boromir survived Parth Galen and happened to be around four years after Aragorn's crowning. However, if you're willing to take certain things - like a live Boromir - on faith, you can probably get through this story without reading the first one. Or you could just go read the other one, and by the time you get back, maybe I'll have another chapter posted... :)

My deepest thanks to Annys and Bookwyrm for keeping my nose to the grindstone and making sure (through plenty of nag... uhhh... encouragement) that I didn't let this sequel slip through the cracks. And thanks to Annys for discovering Borlas!

Enjoy!

-- plasticChevy

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Chapter 1: _Progress_

The clash and ring of metal striking metal filled the air, frightening the morning chorus of birdsong into silence. In the wide, empty space of the practice yard, two men circled each other, their booted feet scuffing on damp earth and sawdust, their swords flashing in the pale sunlight as they hacked and lunged and parried. The day was clear and cold, with the bite of winter in the air, yet the men were sweating heavily beneath their gear, warmed by their exercise and the heat of battle in their veins. So intent were they on their contest of arms that they did not feel hunger, thirst or the cut of the wind on their faces. 

The slight figure huddled on the wall to watch them, clad in the sober livery of a royal squire, was not so fortunate. With no battle lust to warm her and no combat to distract her from her stomach's complaints, she was both cold and hungry. But she made no sound, offered no protest, and merely pulled her cloak more closely about her shoulders when the wind gusted. She might have no part in the skirmish, but she watched it as keenly as any captain drilling his troops, and when a blade whistled too near a helmed head for comfort, her grip on her cloak tightened until her knuckles showed white.

It would never have occurred to Gil to leave her post and seek shelter from the winter chill. She was the Steward's Squire, sworn to her lord's service and proud to keep her place at his side. Where Boromir went, Gil went before him, and when he reached for her, she was there - even if it meant that she must sit quietly by while he and his brother tried their best to dismember each other. 

Faramir's sword came whistling down in a vicious arc toward Boromir's helm. For a moment, it seemed as though he would cleave his brother's head in two, then Boromir's sword came up to parry the blow and caught the blade on his hilts. Swords locked, muscles strained, and mighty arms strove to master those pitted against them.

With a tremendous heave, Boromir at last thrust aside his brother's weapon, and Faramir fell back, breathing hard. He had barely recovered his balance when Boromir abruptly changed tactics and charged in, sword flashing. Faramir moved with startling speed, sidestepping his onrushing opponent and disarming him with a deft twist of his own blade. Even as Boromir's sword went flying, Faramir swept his legs out from under him, knocked him flat on his back, and brought the point of his sword to the Steward's throat.

No one moved for a long, quiet moment. Then Faramir lowered his sword and said, "You were doing quite well, until you tried to disembowel me, Brother."

"How am I to win such a contest if I cannot disembowel my enemy? Or lop off an arm, at the very least?"

Faramir uttered a longsuffering sigh and pulled off his helm to run a hand through his matted hair. "The point of this exercise is not to win a contest of arms but to defend against attack."

Boromir made a disgusted noise in his throat and sat up. "Much good that will do me."

"It may keep you alive," his brother pointed out.

Boromir climbed to his feet, shedding bits of sawdust from his clothing as he did so. "Only if I am fighting you." He looked around the enclosure in exaggerated confusion. "Might I trouble you for my sword?"

Faramir retrieved the weapon and handed it to him, chuckling. His brother's sour mood neither surprised nor daunted him, used as he was to bearing with it whenever Boromir began to chafe at his clumsiness. That he was, in truth, ably defending himself against a concerted attack by the finest warrior in Gondor meant nothing to Boromir, when he found himself disarmed and dispatched, again and again, by his younger brother. Progress was not enough for Boromir of Gondor. He wanted victory, and he wanted it now.

"Come, try it again," Faramir urged, as he donned his helm, "and do not grow over eager. You will succeed in disemboweling me, in time, but first you must prevent me from disemboweling you."

Boromir grunted his assent and swung his blade, testing its weight and feel in his hand. Satisfied, he planted his feet firmly, lifted sword and shield in readiness, and nodded to his brother.

They began again, moving slowly and deliberately at first while Boromir relaxed into the deep concentration needed for battle, then more quickly, more fiercely, as Faramir began to press him. To Gil, who sat very still upon the wall, her eyes never leaving the figure of her liege lord, the combat seemed a thing both beautiful and frightening. She knew nothing of warfare, but she had watched the brothers drill and spar and fight in earnest for several months now - since the first day that Boromir had finally pressured Faramir into undertaking his training - and so she knew much of Boromir's skill with a sword. She had watched the innate grace and strength return to his limbs, watched him remember the artistry learned over a lifetime, and watched with a secret thrill of pride as he threw himself headlong into the joy of battle. 

Combat was fairly joined and heating up nicely when the patter of running feet drew Gil's eyes away. She turned to see a small figure pelting down the path from the armory, black cloak flapping behind him in his haste. Gil promptly swung her feet to the outside of the wall, hopped down, and strode swiftly to meet him. He had nearly reached the end of the yard, where a break in the wall gave access to the armory and outbuildings, when Gil caught him. Her hand closed firmly on his shoulder, and she held a finger to her lips, silencing his intended cry. 

He was a page, by his dress, and little more than a child. Black hair blew in a snarl around his face, and grey eyes grew round with wonder at the sight of the two men fighting in the yard. Gil recognized him as Borlas, the younger son of Beregond, and newly come to King Elessar's service. He was a well-mannered and intelligent boy, like his brother before him, but had not yet learned the rules that governed life as a royal page - the most urgent rule being that no one distracted the Steward when he had a sword in his hand. Giving the boy an admonitory look, Gil escorted him the last few steps to the edge of the practice ground. There, she stood beside him, still gripping his shoulder to keep him both still and quiet, and waited for the skirmish to end.

It lasted somewhat longer than the previous one. Boromir remembered to stay on the defensive, reining in his temper and the urge to press his attacker, letting the lighter, swifter, more maneuverable Faramir bring the battle to him. Faramir was breathing hard and sweating freely, losing some of the steel in his sinews, by the time he at last succeeded in disarming Boromir. He managed it by shifting his sword to his left hand and coming at him from an entirely unexpected direction. Boromir, with his uncanny prescience for when and where a blow would fall, sensed the blade's movement but not in time to counter it. Faramir sent his weapon spinning across the yard and rested his own sword upon Boromir's shoulder, in readiness to cut his head from his neck.

"Surrender or die," the Prince said, lightly.

Boromir growled and knocked the sword away with a leather-clad forearm. Gil saw that he was about to challenge his brother to another trial and deemed it time to intervene, lest Borlas's message never be delivered. Stepping forward, she cleared her throat loudly. 

Faramir's head came about with a start, and he let his sword fall to his side. "What is it, Gil? Who is this?"

"A messenger from the Citadel, my lords."

Boromir pulled the helm from his head and turned unerringly to find her with his blind gaze. "From Aragorn?" he demanded.

She felt Borlas stiffen at the sight of his stern, handsome face and the black cloth that covered his eyes, and she could picture the expression of pale, dry-mouthed fear the page wore without looking. Gil did not understand why others found Boromir's shrouded gaze so unnerving; she thought the bandage as much a part of his face as his neatly-trimmed beard or his rare, brilliant smiles. But nearly everyone reacted in much the same way upon first meeting the Steward of Gondor - with surprise, awkwardness, or outright fear - and the younger the person, the less well he concealed it.

The Steward had worn the black bandage every waking moment for nearly four years, since a blow from an orc blade had crushed his face, destroyed his eyes and condemned him to a lifetime of darkness. Many things had changed since that day, many wounds had healed, and Boromir was no longer the broken, despairing man who had been cast into the dungeons of Isengard. But he was still blind. And out of vanity or pride or courtesy to those who must look upon him, he kept his ruined eyes covered.

Gil glanced down at Borlas, waiting for him to speak, and gave him a nudge when he did not. The boy started violently, then stepped forward, squaring his shoulders and swallowing audibly.

"The King sends his compliments," he recited, his voice squeaking slightly with nerves, "and asks that my lord Steward and Prince Faramir attend him in the Tower at their earliest convenience!"

Boromir grunted and turned away to look for his sword. Borlas, who had clearly expected a more eloquent response, glanced at Gil in confusion. She gave him a humorous look but offered no help.

Summoning his courage, Borlas asked, "Shall I take some answer to the King, my lords?"

"Aye," Boromir said distractedly, scuffing a toe in the dirt, absorbed in his search for the missing weapon. 

Faramir retrieved it from where it lay by the wall and returned it to his brother. Then he doffed his helm and turned to the flustered boy. "Our humble duty to the King, and we will wait upon him with all possible haste," he said gravely.

Borlas favored him with a wide, relieved smile, bowed courteously, and sped back up the road toward the city. Faramir watched him curiously, until he felt Boromir's hand close around his arm. Then he started toward Gil, musing, "I wonder to what purpose Aragorn has summoned us?"

"Taleris has returned," Boromir said. "Did you not hear the trumpets at the Harlond, heralding his arrival?"

"I did not mark them." They reached the edge of the yard and stepped onto the sere, winter grass of the greensward that lay before the armory. Turning to Gil, Faramir asked, "Was that not Beregond's son who hared off so quickly?"

"Aye, my lord." She took Boromir's helm from him and fell into step a few paces behind the princely brothers. "He is new to his page's duties and has not yet learned to dawdle." 

Faramir, who had learned to appreciate Gil's dry sense of humor if naught else about her, grinned at that. "And he is afraid of my brother, no doubt." 

Boromir laughed, a touch ruefully. "I am the ogre in Aragorn's cupboard. He uses me to frighten all the young ones into obedience, and to make himself seem kind by comparison."

Gil uttered a wordless grunt of disgust, and Faramir chuckled. 

Halting at the open doors of the armory, Faramir held out his sword and helm to Gil. As the men shed their gear, Gil lugged it inside the building and set it on the large, sturdy wooden table that dominated the room. Swords, helms, shields, leather vambraces and breastplates, padded jerkins. All of it she neatly stacked where the armorers would find it. In a matter of minutes, the men were stripped down to their mail shirts and rough, serviceable garments. Gil dumped the last load of practice gear on the table and retrieved their cloaks from the pegs just inside the door.

Outside, Faramir was bent over a water barrel, scrubbing the sweat from his face and beard. He dried his face on the skirt of his tunic, then accepted his cloak from Gil with a nod of thanks. Boromir took his place at the barrel and, sliding off the strip of cloth he wore, plunged his head in the water. Icy ripples surged over the lip of the barrel, drenching the front of Boromir's breeches and Gil's feet, turning the damp ground to a quagmire beneath their boots. Then he pulled his head out, wiped the water from his face and settled the bandage across his eyes again so deftly that it might never have been moved. 

Gil handed him his cloak, keeping to herself the dour thought that a cloak was little protection against the cold when one walked around soaking wet beneath it. Her own feet were quickly going numb, and they squelched unpleasantly in her soggy boots when she moved. Boromir swung the cloak about his shoulders and fastened the silver clasp at his throat. Then his hand dropped to Gil's shoulder.

Strong as the bond was between Steward and squire, they needed to exchange no words. The brief tightening of Boromir's fingers on her shoulder was signal enough to Gil that he wished to leave, and the slight shift of his weight told her in which direction to go. It took her only a few steps to find his desired pace and match her stride to his, and she dropped easily into an even stride that was neither particularly urgent nor leisurely but that carried her lord back to his duties and his king without delay.

Faramir walked at Boromir's side, discussing with his brother the business and concerns of the realm without giving the squire a second thought. Even Prince Faramir, with his deep reservations as to the propriety of turning a healer's drudge - and a woman, at that - into the Steward's most trusted companion, had grown so used to her constant presence that he no longer hesitated to speak in front of her as if he were alone with Boromir. 

They spoke of Lord Taleris as they walked, speculating on what news he brought from the southern fiefdoms. Gil sighed inwardly at mention of his name, wishing that he had remained in the south and left them all in peace to enjoy the coming of spring. Taleris always brought strife to the Citadel, for as useful as he was to King Elessar, the Steward openly disliked and distrusted him. Aragorn could neither dismiss Taleris, who had done nothing to warrant such treatment, nor reconcile Boromir to his presence, and Taleris' dislike of Boromir had grown dramatically over the years. 

Gil did not presume to judge the King's choice of deputies, but she shared her lord's animosity for Taleris and heartily wished him gone back to his estates in Lossarnach. He had a glaring, hostile look in his eyes that unsettled her, and he muttered a great deal about the Lord Denethor and treacherous sons when he thought Boromir could not hear him. Like many in the Tower, Taleris suffered from the delusion that Boromir, being blind, was also hard of hearing and slow of understanding, and could not hear what was not spoken directly to him. And like many, he assumed that Gil was but a spare limb or garment that Boromir carried about with him - deaf and blind and dumb as an old boot. Thus she heard much that was not meant for her ears and learned much that she would rather not have known. Lord Taleris' opinion of his present and former masters was one such thing.

Her thoughts dwelt uncomfortably upon Lord Taleris, as they walked past armory, smithy, stables and mews, climbing steadily toward the wide gate that let into the city's sixth circle. A small shoulder of Mount Mindolluin thrust out from peak at this level, providing space for these necessary but rather noisy and odorous buildings outside the walls. Just inside the gate were the quarters that housed the errand riders of Gondor and the barracks of the Fourth Company of the Guard. The streets were always busy with soldiers, riders, and the artisans who kept them in tack and gear. Boromir and Faramir could not pass through them without greeting many an old brother-in-arms and returning many a salute.

At last, they came to the main street and the Citadel Gate. The sentries snapped to attention and saluted as the Princes of Anórien and Ithilien strode past, then they were into the cool shadows of the tunnel, their footsteps echoing along the smooth walls. 

As they passed through the upper gate and into the thin sunshine once more, Faramir remarked, "I cannot go before the King in all my dirt. I must lay aside this mail shirt, at the least, and scrape the mud from my boots."

Boromir grinned and shook his head. "Aragorn cares naught for muddy boots. He is eager enough to tell us his news that he sent a page to find us. I deem it unwise to keep him waiting."

"And if he is not alone?"

"Then mayhap our smell will drive Taleris from the room all the faster. Come, let us to the King!"

Faramir sighed in mock despair and said, "You will never be a statesman, Brother. You lack subtlety."

Boromir only laughed and quickened his pace, eager to be at Aragorn's side again.

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A peremptory knock fell upon the door, and Aragorn glanced up from his desk with a smile. Only one man pounded on the King's door with such bold impatience, and he was just the man Aragorn most wanted to see. Glancing at the page who lurked at his back, he nodded toward the door. The boy bowed and scrambled to open it. 

Lord Taleris stood between Aragorn's seat and the doorway, planted in the middle of the rug on widespread feet, his head thrown back and his hands clasped behind him. The King suspected that the wily old courtier was trying to establish himself at the center of this council, not allowing the Princes to shift him from his place or overawe him with their size and presence. The result was that he effectively blocked Aragorn's view of the door. 

Aragorn, who had no intention of craning his neck to peer around Taleris, fixed his deputy with a mild gaze and gestured at the map spread on the table before him. "If you please, my lord, where precisely is this fortification you inspected?"

Taleris stepped up to the table, sidling around its end to reach the proper section of the large map, and realized too late that he had been neatly shuffled to one side. Aragorn's gaze was not on the map, but on the doorway and the two brothers who strode through it, bringing the mud and damp and stink of the practice yard with them and instantly shrinking the chamber to half its wonted size.

Aragorn pushed back his chair and rose to greet them, his eyes twinkling with silent laughter at the look of sour disapproval on Taleris' face. Boromir entered first, his hand resting lightly on Gil's small, straight shoulder, looking every inch the Steward of Gondor in spite of his disreputable clothing and dripping wet hair. He turned his bandaged gaze on Taleris - a habit that never failed to unnerve the other man - and nodded politely to him. Then he grinned at Aragorn.

"We took you at your word, Aragorn, and came in all our dirt to answer your summons."

"So I see. How goes the training?"

Boromir only grunted, his smile turning abruptly to a scowl, but Faramir answered, "Pay him no heed, my king. He will be slaughtering orcs soon enough."

Aragorn chuckled. "With any luck, we are done with slaughter for a very long time."

"It is good news, then," Boromir said. As he spoke, he moved to the chair that always stood at the end of the table to Aragorn's right, needing no guidance to find it. Gil went with him out of habit, watched him take his seat, then drew back to the hearth where she could wait for her lord, unnoticed by the men around the table. 

"Aye. Taleris brings me detailed reports from his tour of the larger fiefdoms. All is quiet and secure in the south."

"What of the lands east of Anduin?" Faramir asked, stepping forward to look at the map that nearly filled the great, wooden table. "We have heard rumors in South Ithilien of movement across the Harad Road."

Taleris hunched one shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "There are always rumors, just as there are always orcs in the Mountains of Shadow and brigands in the wilds of Dunland. I rode the western bank of Anduin myself, as high as to Pelargir, and heard no whisper of trouble to the east." He tapped a finger on the map and added, "Ciryon of Lebennin has finished his fortress here, above the Ethir Anduin, and crowned it with a lofty tower. From its top, I could see across the estuary and league upon league into the desert. There is naught stirs in South Gondor, save wind and sand."

"Letters from Ciryon, Imrahil and many of our vassal lords confirm it," Aragorn said. "Our borders are secure, our people at peace and our neighbors occupied with their own concerns. Unless the Haradrim trouble you, Faramir..."

"Nay. As Taleris says, there are always rumors."

Aragorn smiled with genuine pleasure at his answer and sat back in his chair. "Then it is as I hoped."

Boromir heard the note of satisfaction in his voice and asked, with the air of a man who already knows the answer, "Your plans go forward?"

"They do indeed. Your return could not be more timely, my lord Taleris, nor your news more welcome! If we set things in motion today, we will be ready to leave by the end of March."

Taleris blinked at him, nonplussed. "Leave? You are leaving Gondor, my lord?"

"Aye." Aragorn trailed a fingertip over the map, tracing the road through Anórien to Rohan, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "The winter has been mild and spring is already making herself felt. We can likely count on good weather through the southern lands. By the time we reach harsher climes, summer will be upon us. 'Tis very well... very well..."

"My lord!"

"I rule two kingdoms, Taleris. I have not set foot in Arnor since I came into my birthright, and I deem it well past time that I did."

"You go to Arnor?"

"More than that. We will make a Progress through all our western realms, that the people of Middle-earth may know their King."

"And this Progress will take how many months?" the old lord asked, his gaze sliding over to where Boromir sat.

"That will depend on many things outside my control, but I expect to be gone the better part of a year. Let us say, nine months." His eyes twinkled mischievously as he added, "Ten, if Master Brandybuck bribes us sufficiently with pipeweed and good, home-brewed ale."

To Aragorn's surprise and private dismay, Boromir did not smile at this sally. Instead, his face grew somber and he turned his shrouded gaze away from his king, a frown tugging at his lips.

"And who, may I ask, do you take with you on this royal Progress?" Taleris ventured.

"The Queen, of course, Prince Boromir, the Dúnedain, a company of the Citadel Guard, and some small number of lords and noblemen who may wish to see the lands of the West."

Taleris' face had relaxed visibly at mention of Boromir, and he now smiled upon his king with perfect affability. "With your southern realm left in the care of Prince Faramir?"

"I shall send word to Imrahil that he is to act as Faramir's seneschal. That will leave two Princes of Númenorean blood and proven worth to safeguard Gondor in my absence."

"Indeed, indeed." Taleris was positively beaming. "Is there aught that I can do to help with your preparations?"

"I'm sure there is, but not just at this moment." Aragorn tried to keep the cynical note from his voice and only just managed it. Taleris' slavering eagerness to send them on their way, now that he knew Boromir was to be one of the party, both amused and annoyed his liege lord. But Aragorn was heartened by the thought that his Steward would not have to endure Taleris' company for many months. That ought to put a smile on Boromir's face if nothing else could, and it would certainly take the edge off of his temper.

But as Aragorn sent Taleris about his business and handed over to Faramir the various documents he had brought with him from the journey south, he noticed that Boromir's mood did not improve. The Steward sat in gloomy silence, saying nothing about the reports and dispatches, giving Faramir no more than a grunt in farewell as he left the room. He did not bestir himself until he and Aragorn were alone with Gil, then he turned to his squire.

"You need not wait for me, Gil. Get yourself a meal and some dry clothes. I will find you, when I need you."

She rose to her feet and moved to the door as silently as a black and silver shadow. Pausing with one hand on the latch, she asked, "Shall I bring you a meal, my lord? You have not eaten since sunup."

"Do not coddle me, girl! Be gone!" 

"And tell the page waiting outside that he, too, may go," Aragorn added.

Gil bowed slightly, her calm unimpaired, and left the room. Aragorn turned a questioning look on his Steward.

"Have you not eaten?"

"Leave off, Aragorn. I can look after my own stomach."

Like Gil, Aragorn knew his irascible friend well enough to see through the crusty temper to the distraction and worry beneath. He did not bother to press him further about his eating habits, but cut straight to the heart of the matter. 

"What is troubling you, Boromir?"

"This Progress of yours."

Aragorn sighed and settled back in his chair. "So I feared. Very well, then, tell me what obstacle you would throw in my path."

"There is no obstacle," he stirred, as though uncomfortable beneath Aragorn's gaze, "but I would ask you a favor."

The King's brows rose in surprise. It was not often that his Steward asked anything of him, and this request was clearly of great importance to him. "I will grant it, if I can."

"Take Faramir with you in my stead." Aragorn stared at him, mouth agape, taken so completely off his guard that he could not find a thing to say. Boromir waited for an answer, then said acidly, "You can hardly fear that Gondor will come to harm in my care!"

Aragorn shut his mouth with a snap, swallowed once, and said, "I was not thinking of Gondor. I was thinking of Merry's reaction, if I were to ride up to the Brandywine Bridge with Faramir at my side."

The Steward winced. "That was a foul blow, Aragorn."

"No more foul than the one you just leveled at me." He eyed his friend narrowly, trying to read his true intentions in his face. "Why did you wait 'til now to ask this of me? And why would you give your place to your brother?"

"He will take more pleasure in the journey than I. He has dreamed all his life of Elvish songs and legends, but he has always lived in the world of Men, ruled by his duty to Gondor. The one time that duty might have taken him beyond our borders, to the lands of his imagining, I usurped his place. I denied him the chance to see Elrond Half-Elven in the valley of Rivendell or the Lady Galadriel in her Golden Wood. Now those great ones have departed Middle-earth and his chance is lost. But I would let him walk beneath the trees of Imladris while some memory of Elrond yet lingers there. I owe him that much."

"Noble sentiments and an eloquent speech, but not the whole truth, I think."

Boromir stiffened in his chair, his head coming up proudly. He held the pose for a heartbeat, then he suddenly relaxed again, slumping back with a sigh and propping one knee against the edge of the table. "Plague take it, Aragorn, you know me too well."

The King smiled warmly at him. "I do. And I love you too well to lose your company for nine long months, unless I know the reason why."

"Is Faramir's welfare not reason enough?"

"Boromir..."

Boromir heard the warning note in his voice and relented. "I have no wish to tramp the leagues of Eriador again, " he said, heavily. "My memories of them are not fond."

"There is much of the West you have not seen."

"And would not still, though I traveled with you."

"What of Merry? What of the Shire? Would you not see its beauties through his eyes?"

"Mayhap some day I will."

"He will be bitterly disappointed to find Faramir in your place."

"Do you think I do not know it? Or worse, do not care?" His words were edged with anger, and his hands clenched on the arms of his chair. "I miss him every day, think of him every night when I lie down to sleep and listen to the darkness thicken about me. I would give almost anything to hear his voice again."

"Then come with me."

"I cannot. I am not ready to leave my home, Aragorn, after wandering so long and so far to find it. Merry understood that, when he chose to return to the Shire. He will understand now. I know he will."

"And what of me, old friend? Are you so sure that I will understand?"

Boromir fixed him with his bandaged gaze. "Do you not?"

A wise ruler knew when to surrender, and that time had come for King Elessar. He could command Boromir to join him in his Progress, and his Steward would obey him, but it would serve only to wound a man who had already taken hurts enough in his service. Aragorn could harden his heart to sacrifice his friend for Gondor, but not for his own comfort.

With a weary sigh, he murmured, "Aye. But I will miss you, Boromir."

"And I, you."

"I had hoped your wounds were better healed than this."

"They are, so long as I remain where I belong, doing what I can for Gondor and for you. But what I said about Faramir is true, my king. I did him a great injury, when I usurped his place on the quest, and I have often wondered if that is not why I failed."

"Boromir, we have been through this..."

He lifted a hand to silence Aragorn's protest, then shrugged and offered him a brief smile. "Let us not argue this again. Only believe me when I say that I owe Faramir this chance, and in giving it to him, I will finally heal one of those old wounds that troubles you."

"I hope so."

"Do not be angry, Aragorn, I pray you."

"I am not angry, just disappointed. And I wish you had told me sooner."

"What? And give you longer to wear me down? I am not such a fool."

Aragorn snorted in disgust. "I would do better to teach an orc table manners." When Boromir opened his mouth to retort, Aragorn laughed and slapped a hand on the table. "Enough. You need a meal and a bath, and I need some peace in which to work. Take yourself off before I decide to try my hand at wearing you down!"

Boromir chuckled as he pushed himself to his feet. He moved to the door with the ease of long familiarity, automatically stepping over the frayed edge of the rug so as not to catch his boot heel. In the corridor outside, he found Gil waiting for him against his express orders. She stepped up beside him, murmured a greeting, and ignored his sour demand to know what she thought she was doing lurking outside the King's study. She also did not ask him where he wished to go, but simply started off down the hallway, taking the Steward with her.

They were halfway up a flight of stairs, when Gil suddenly asked, "Will you go with the King, lord?"

"Nay!"

"I thought not." 

Her normally wooden voice held a marked note of satisfaction that brought a flashing smile to Boromir's face. "What you mean is that you do not want to go, either. Afraid you'll be forced to ride, Gil?"

"A bargain is a bargain," she answered loftily. "I trust my lord Steward will not go back on his word."

"Stubborn creature." As they moved down the curving hallway toward his chambers, their footsteps muffled on thick carpet, he commented wryly, "I stink like the inside of a trooper's helm."

"Aye, lord."

"You were not meant to agree with me so readily."

"Was I not? But then, you do stink like the inside of a trooper's helm."

"What do you know of troopers or their gear, my girl?"

"Naught but what I have learned from you, my lord. I have smelled the inside of your helm many a time." She paused, then added calmly, "And I have ordered a bath for you in your chambers."

"I do not want a bath," Boromir snapped. "I want food!"

"That also awaits you in your chambers," she halted in front of a door and put her hand to the latch, "together with your bath and your body servant. Is there aught else that you require, my lord Steward?"

Boromir grinned at her and gave her shoulder a squeeze before stepping through the open doorway. "You are a gem beyond price, Gil. I would be lost without you."

She stood absolutely still, face impassive, until the door had shut between her and her lord. Then Gil turned on her heel and strode away, her face as blank as ever and her lashes lowered to hide the lurking smile in her eyes.

*** *** ***

Boromir sat hunched over a piece of parchment, gnawing on the feathered tip of a quill and frowning in thought. Through the open window, he heard the trumpet call that announced the change of the guard, and he sighed in frustration. Another hour gone, several more sheets of Aragorn's best parchment ruined, and naught to show for his efforts but the ink stains on his hands and the crumpled, scattered evidence of his failure.

With another sigh, he dipped the end of his quill in the ink stand, then touched it to the parchment where the tip of his finger rested. Before he could pull his finger away, he felt a pool of liquid form beneath it and knew that all the fresh ink had just soaked into the parchment, leaving a tremendous blot - the fourth or fifth such blot in a few ragged lines of writing.

Frustration made him careless, and he jerked his hand away, causing the parchment to skitter out from under his pen. He instinctively tried to catch it with his right hand, but his movement crushed the delicate quill against the table and he felt it snap between his fingers. Uttering a heartfelt groan, Boromir threw the pen away from him and buried his face in his hands.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the door, and Boromir dropped his hands, listening. He hoped they would pass him by. He wanted no interruptions and no offers of help, especially from Aragorn's army of busy servants. Aragorn himself was inspecting the work on the new bridge in Osgiliath and would not trouble him, but he had left an abundance of deputies behind him. In the last few weeks, since the King's announcement that he planned to make his Progress west, everyone from the Chamberlain to the lowliest kitchen drudge had begun to fawn upon the Steward. If he knew no better, Boromir thought caustically, he would suspect that they were trying to curry favor with the man who was to be their ruler for many months to come.

To his dismay, the footsteps halted at his door, and a firm hand rapped quickly upon it. Boromir frowned and clamped his lips together, hoping the intruder would go away with no encouragement. But the door was already swinging open and the tread of lightly-shod feet sounded upon the floor. The smell of sunlight on leaves reached him a heartbeat before he heard a familiar and welcome voice hail him.

"Well met, my lord Steward."

Boromir came quickly to his feet, his face alight. "Legolas! Well met, indeed!"

The Elf crossed the room to him in a few strides, and the two old comrades embraced warmly. As they stepped apart, Boromir remarked, "I had thought you still in Greenwood. What brings you here?"

"I have been back this month or more but hard at work among my people."

"Your people." Boromir grinned at the note of pride in the Elf's voice. "You are grown into a true prince, now that the Elves of Ithilien look to you."

Legolas uttered a musical laugh that did not conceal the pleasure he took in the Steward's words. "Ithilien has a Prince and needs no other," he averred.

"What is it the Rangers call you? Lord of Henneth Annûn?" Boromir settled back into his chair, smiling up at his friend.

"Aye." Legolas perched on the edge of the table, and Boromir could feel his sharp eyes fixed upon him. "What are you doing, Boromir? You are all over black splotches and, unless my eyes are failing, you have bits of feather in your beard."

Boromir sighed yet again and ran a hand over his chin in embarrassment. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Legolas was teasing him about the feathers in his beard, but that was unlikely, and Boromir had to control the impulse to rub his sleeve over his face in a bid to get it clean. Instead, he dropped his hand and laughed at his own folly. 

"I am writing a letter."

"Does Gil not write your letters for you?"

"Aye, but I wanted to pen this one myself. I had hoped it would mean more, in my own hand." He brushed his fingertips across the table top, until he found the sheet of parchment. Then he pushed it toward Legolas.

The Elf lifted the paper and fell quiet as he tried to decipher the writing upon it. Boromir waited, his face heating with chagrin, until he heard the rustle of parchment against wood again.

"To Merry?"

"Aye."

"He won't get past the second word, I fear." Again, he felt keen, elvish eyes upon him. "It was a good thought, Boromir, but you will soften Merry's heart the quicker if he can actually read your words."

"Did you travel all the way from Ithilien to tell me what I already know?"

The Elf laughed. "Nay, but to save the hapless Merry from confusion and despair."

Boromir brightened visibly. "Will you carry my apologies to him in person?"

"Not I, unless the Halfling can hear me calling all the way from Gondor!"

"I thought you were going with Aragorn."

"I meant to ride with him, as far as Aglarond at the least, but I have changed my mind."

A sudden, unpleasant thought occurred to Boromir at the Elf's innocent words, and he demanded, in a tone of deep suspicion, "And why, pray tell, will you do that?"

"I have much to do here," he answered, placidly. "More of my people arrive in Ithilien every day, and it falls to me to make them welcome. Then there is the garden at Emyn Arnen..."

"Aragorn told you to stay," Boromir growled, cutting him off.

"To what purpose?"

"He has set you to watch me."

Legolas chuckled, causing Boromir's scowl to deepen. "What folly is this? Aragorn would do nothing so ignoble, or so needless, and he would not enlist my aid if he did."

"Hah! Why then did you seek me out today?"

"To tell you that I am to remain in Gondor and would bear you company in the long months ahead. The time may weigh less heavily upon you, if you escape to Henneth Annûn, now and then, for a bit of Elvish hospitality."

"A nursemaid," Boromir growled, with a certain bitter satisfaction. "Legolas of the Elves is turned nursemaid."

The Elf laughed outright. "Boromir, there are times when I wonder why anyone bears with your crotchets! Churlish Man!"

"Secretive, smooth-tongued Elf!"

"I am all of that and more. I am your friend, and I had foolishly thought you would be glad of my companionship." Boromir said nothing to this, but his silence was thoughtful rather than hostile, and Legolas went on persuasively, "'Tis little enough chance we have to ride together, hunt together, sit together and talk of our homes and our people. Do you remember the promise I made to teach you archery?"

"Aye."

"The woods of Ithilien are full of game in the summer and autumn. And the table at Henneth Annûn is always laid for guests."

"Smooth-tongued Elf," Boromir murmured, a smile tugging at his lips.

"And mayhap, when you tire of Elvish company, you will ride with me to Aglarond to try the hospitality of the Dwarves."

"Gimli has tried many times to lure me into his glittering caves," he mused. Then he fixed Legolas with the steady regard that many found so unnerving in a blind man but that seemed to trouble the Elf not at all, and asked, "But who will plead my cause to Merry, if you do not?"

"Make your own apologies, my friend. They cannot fail to move the Halfling. And I will undertake to put them down in a fair hand for you."

Boromir's face lightened with relief. "Would you? In truth, Legolas, I have been cursing myself for a fool this hour past and wishing for a handy scribe."

"There are no better scribes in all Middle-earth than the Elves!"

"And no more modest ones," he retorted, dryly. "I pray you, Master Scribe, to work! I must be done with this before a horde of servants descends upon me again!"

"As you wish, my lord Steward."

The Elf's pen flew as swiftly as Boromir's thoughts, and the letter was done in only a few minutes. Legolas placed it in front of Boromir and guided his pen to the bottom of the parchment sheet, where the Steward scrawled a slightly crooked, but perfectly legible signature. Then Legolas dusted the flowing lines with sand and rolled it into a neat scroll. Among the collection of tools on the desk was a copy of Boromir's seal - the horn and stars of Anórien - so the Elf sealed the parchment with a circle of purple-black wax and fixed the Prince's device in it.

"'Tis done," he announced.

Boromir held out his hand for the letter and turned it over in his fingers, his face thoughtful. "Will it serve, do you think?"

He felt the Elf's long fingers close around his forearm, squeezing gently. "It will serve."

**__**

To be continued...


	2. The King's Departure

**Author's Note:** As you may have noticed, this story gets off to a slower start than the last one, but I like it this way. I wanted to give Our Boys some time to breathe and show us what everyday life is like around the Citadel. This chapter isn't exactly everyday life, but it's not fast-paced action either. Trust me, the fast-paced part is coming, but it takes some exposition and development to get there, since I didn't have a known crisis – like the battle at Parth Galen – to just plunge into without any explanation.

Thank you all for your welcome back and your lovely comments! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint…

Enjoy!  -- Chevy

P.S. Kathie, I got it done in time! Welcome home! J

**Chapter 2: _The King's Departure_**

The tavern was neither the cleanest in Minas Tirith nor the dirtiest, and its ale was of middling quality at best. It resided in a wide, paved alley off the fourth circle, surrounded by thriving shops and frequented by the clerks and artisans who worked in them. The man who stood behind the scarred wooden counter had a jovial face, a broad belly, and a keen eye that did not smile as readily as his lips. He nodded a greeting to the man who ducked through the low doorway and moved to draw a tankard for him.

Lord Taleris paused just inside the door to let his eyes adjust to the gloom. He was dressed as a prosperous merchant, in finery rather too gaudy for the stately Citadel, but no borrowed clothing could hide the nobleman in his face and bearing. Cold eyes swept the room, pausing to acknowledge the barkeep's nodded greeting, then he strode to the back of the chamber. There, in the darkest corner, sat a man clad in the dusty, worn garments of a laborer. His hair was covered by a close cap of leather, his body wrapped in a woolen cloak, the hood pushed back to lie around his shoulders, and his feet shod in heavy boots. He stank of horse sweat and manure, and the merchant wrinkled his nose in disgust as he took a seat opposite this rank specimen.

"Must you go about smelling of the carter's shed?" he asked, his lip lifting in distaste.

The seated man grinned, splitting his dark face with a wide, white swath of teeth. "I come when you call. How I smell is not your concern. Now, my friend, what is so urgent that you must risk a public meeting?"

Taleris waited until the barkeep had set a foaming tankard in front of him and returned to his place across the room, then he shoved the drink aside and leaned over to murmur, "The King's plans have changed."

The carter frowned. "He does not go?"

"He goes, but he takes Prince Faramir with him. The Steward will remain to rule in his stead."

"Ah. But this is good news, surely."

"It is not."

The carter bared his teeth in something that was not a smile. "You are afraid of this steward."

"I am afraid of nothing!" Taleris snapped, though his eyes slid away from the other man's gaze as he said it. "And you would do well to heed my warnings, Gabril." 

"You grow timid in proportion to your wealth, but we do not pay you for timidity. Speak your mind, and I will judge whether there is cause for worry."

"The Steward does not trust me. He will watch me at every turn…"

"He cannot watch you," the man called Gabril scoffed. "He is blind. I say it will be easier to deal with the Steward than with his brother."

"And I say you are wrong. Prince Faramir is more trusting, more even of judgment, and more readily swayed by arguments."

"That is not his reputation."

"You do not know the sons of Denethor!" the old lord retorted. "_I_ must deal with them both, day by day, and _I_ say that it would be easier to conceal your movements from Prince Faramir than from that cur who calls himself Steward of Gondor!"

Gabril gazed at him with some humor in his narrow, black eyes. "_I _say your hatred of Boromir clouds your reason. And I will suggest to you, my skittish friend, that you can take no greater revenge on yon cur than to drag his name through the mire of war, defeat and treachery with his Stewardship. What say you to that?"

The other man stroked his greying beard thoughtfully. "T'would be sweet, indeed. But do not be fooled by that bandage he wears, Gabril!"

"Is this blind man, this Shadow Steward, so formidable?"

"Nay. But he is ruthless when he deems his honor at stake, and he surrounds himself with mewling sycophants who guard his every step. Even the Elf – Lord of Henneth-Annûn they call him! Faugh! – clings to his skirts. It will go hard with you, if any hint of what you are about reaches the Steward or his minions."

"Should that happen, I will turn to my good friend Taleris for help."

"I cannot help you, nor will I go down with you. I have crossed no line that can be seen, put my hand to no proven act of treachery. All is but malice and slander until proof is given, and there is no proof."

"What of the riches piling up in your manor house?"

Taleris grinned mirthlessly. "Go to my estate and look for yourself. You will find nothing amiss."

Gabril leaned closer to him and murmured, a smile pulling at his lips, "And what of the letter?" The other man's face froze. Gabril let him sweat for a moment, then dropped his voice even lower and said, "You destroyed a letter entrusted to you by the Lord of Lebennin. You forged another to take its place. Think you this is proof enough of treachery?"

Taleris licked his lips nervously. "Not if Ciryon dies."

"Ciryon of Lebennin is not your most pressing problem. I am. Do not fail me now, Taleris, or I will make certain both Steward and King know of that letter."

"Why do you waste your breath on threats, Gabril? I have not failed you, nor will I. I only point out to you that the Steward's presence in Gondor will make my task more difficult and force greater caution upon you and your people. He is my implacable enemy. He will thwart me at every turn, simply for the pleasure of doing it, telling me as little of his plans and policy as he in conscience can."

"What does that matter, when the wheels are already in motion? The King knows naught of our movements, or he would not go on this journey and leave his realm in another's hands. The Steward's plans and policies are of no moment to us, once the King is out of Gondor."

Taleris shook his head. "If it were Prince Faramir…"

"Enough! I piss on your princes! One Man of Gondor is much like another, and a sightless one is easier to dupe than his long-eyed brother!"

"Mayhap if I approach Imrahil…" Taleris murmured, thoughtfully.

"Another prince?" Gabril interjected, sourly.

"A friend of many years and one who trusts me. He it was who led the Council in protest against the Stewardship of Boromir. He, alone among the nobility of Gondor, braved the King's wrath to speak the truth of his devoted lapdog. Imrahil is loyal to King Elessar and has kept his oath of fealty to Boromir, but if I whisper in his ear that his kinsman's wits are turning at last, he will believe it. He will believe _me. And should Boromir get wind of your plans, he will look in vain to Imrahil for support. Dol Amroth will think him deranged."_

The black eyes narrowed into slits in the brown face. "Until the Ethir Anduin is lost and the Steward's suspicions proven right. How then will you keep your neck from the executioner's blade, Master Turncoat?"

"Kill Ciryon of Lebennin, and I am safe. He is the only man who knows – or will determine – what part I have played. As my final payment for services rendered, I ask that you put Ciryon to the sword."

Gabril shrugged and lifted his hands. "He must die in any case."

"Then my guilt dies with him. I will guard my tongue well, speak no word to Imrahil of aught save the Steward's health and my fears for his sanity. When war comes, it will take me as much by surprise as the rest of Gondor, and not by word, look or deed will any man think to condemn me. Any man save Boromir, and none will believe him."

The other man shook his head, eyes veiled and face impassive. His attitude clearly nettled Taleris, who added sharply, "Our agreement has always been that I am an advisor and source of information, no more, so that no hint of blame might fall on me. I put myself at risk when I succumbed to your pressures and destroyed that letter, but I will not do so again."

"So be it. The Lord of Lebennin will die, and you may call yourself a loyal son of Gondor if it please you."

"I am loyal to Gondor," Taleris growled, his haughty face grown sullen and furtive in the dim light, "to the Gondor of my father and father's father, the Gondor into whose service I was born. But she is now fallen into the hands of curs and vagabonds, her beauty tarnished, her Citadel defiled…"

Gabril snorted and sat back in his chair. "I have heard this speech before, Taleris."

Taleris' cheeks darkened and his eyes snapped, but he reined in his temper. "I have no need to justify myself to you, Southron."

"None at all," Gabril replied, easily.

Pushing back his chair, Taleris rose to his feet to loom over the seated Gabril. "Do you stay in the city?"

"For a few months yet."

"Then I will look for you at the King's leave-taking." He smiled bitterly. "All the mean and lowly of Minas Tirith will turn out to bid him farewell and strew his steps with flowers."

With that, he tossed a few copper coins on the table and strode out into the thin sunlight of a spring afternoon. Gabril watched him go, an ironic smile on his face, but made no move to follow him. Instead, he pulled the untouched tankard toward him and lifted it to his lips.

*** *** ***

Aragorn leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands around the stem of his jeweled flagon, turning it slowly so that silver, gems and deep red wine caught the candlelight and danced before his eyes. He was infinitely tired, but it was the weariness of a job well done, and he savored the heaviness of it in his limbs. In the new light of morning, he would ride out of the White City, bound for the West and his homeland. He had signed and sealed the last dispatch, filed the last list, supervised the packing of the last cart and concluded his last council meeting. The few hours left to him in Minas Tirith were his own in which to rest, ready himself and say his farewells. Only a few hours. Far too short a time.

Lifting the cup to his lips, he let his eyes slide to the man seated at the end of the table to his right. How was he to say farewell to this man in hours, when days or months would not suffice? How was he to ride out on the morrow with a light heart, knowing that a large portion of that heart lingered behind in his friend's keeping? He sighed to himself and drank deeply of the wine in his cup.

Boromir heard the telltale sigh. His bandaged gaze fixed on his king's face and he raised his own cup in salute. "To a journey both safe and swift."

"'Tis not meant to be swift," Aragorn reminded him. "A royal Progress is a leisurely affair."

Boromir grunted and drank, then he lowered his cup and stared down into it, his face and posture full of melancholy. 

The expression he wore gave Aragorn a flicker of hope, and he could not restrain himself from saying, "There is still time for you to change your mind, Boromir."

"And disappoint Faramir at this late date? I value my hide too much for that."

Aragorn threw every ounce of persuasion he possessed into his voice and urged, "If you are having second thoughts, tell me. I can set all to rights with Faramir, see that your gear is packed and Fedranth saddled by morning, and even find room in a baggage cart for Gil. Only tell me that you want to go."

"Nay. I do not." 

The finality in his words deflated Aragorn's hopes, and he slumped back in his chair again, now more weary than before. "So be it. I had to try."

"You would not be Aragorn if you did not. The most graciously persistent of Men."

Aragorn chuckled. "One of us must be graciously persistent."

"Ah. I detect an insult in the offing. What must the other of us be, pray tell?"

"A _mûmak among the flowers, trampling and crushing and terrifying the gardeners."_

Boromir made a sour noise in his throat and lifted his cup in another, more ironic toast. "I thank you. Between you and Legolas, my pride is in tatters. Your Elvish nursemaid calls me churlish and full of crotchets."

"So you are." Aragorn hesitated for a moment, then said, "I did not set Legolas to guard you, Boromir."

"I know it."

"And yet, I will admit I was sorely tempted. The first time I rode out of this city, leaving you to hold it for me, you were nearly murdered. I cannot forget it, and each time I pass from the gates without you, it returns to haunt me."

Boromir laughed shortly. "Then you had better take Taleris with you. If anyone is likely to murder me in your absence, it is he."

"Do not make light of this."

"I am in earnest. He considers me a traitor, Aragorn, and blames me for my father's death."

Aragorn straightened up slowly in his chair, a frown pulling his brows together. "Is he a true danger to you?"

"Nay. I can keep Taleris well in hand. But I do not trust him out of my hearing, and I tell you bluntly, my king, that I will tolerate no tricks from him! If he gives me cause, I will lock him in a cell so deep and dark that he will know what blindness is!"

"You will do as you see fit," Aragorn answered promptly.

"I will, indeed, and I will not be gainsaid by a pack of perfumed noblemen."

The King grinned at his glowering steward and said, "I foresee an uncomfortable summer for my court." Then he sobered, as his mind turned to the parting on the morrow and his persistent, if groundless fears. "I know you will not hesitate to act, if there is a need, Boromir. I rely utterly on your judgment."

"There is no need for such grim pronouncements, my king. You do not march to war, and no shadow stalks the streets of the city behind you."

"Who knows what the year will bring?"

"Naught that I, Imrahil, and my Elvish nursemaid cannot handle. And do not forget the Dwarves of Aglarond, Éomer King and his Riders, Beregond and his White Company, the Wild Men of the druadan forest… we are hedged about with allies and rescuers!"

"Will you now accuse me of putting them there to safeguard you?"

Boromir gave him one of his most fearsome scowls and demanded, "Did you?"

"Nay!" Aragorn cried, laughing. "I did not!"

Boromir relaxed back into his chair, his face softening into a glinting smile. Gazing at his familiar, beloved face, Aragorn felt the weight of all the coming months fall suddenly upon him. "Ah, Boromir. Nine months seems an eternity to me, at this moment."

"Aye." The smile turned wistful. "But it will pass, and you will have much to occupy you on your journey. You will not feel the time."

"You will have a realm to govern."

"And Taleris to sharpen my wits. I have thought long about it and decided that it is just as well you are leaving him here with me, so I do not grow complacent and numb with boredom." Abruptly, Boromir set his cup on the table and pushed back his chair. "I feel the need of some fresh air. Will you join me, my king?"

"Aye." 

Aragorn thrust back his own chair and stood up. Boromir rose and moved unerringly to the door, where Aragorn met him. With the ease of many years' practice, they fell into step together, Boromir's hand on Aragorn's shoulder and Aragorn one stride ahead of his companion. Down through the Tower of Ecthelion they went, meeting none but servants at this late hour, and out through the echoing darkness of the antechamber to the lofty doors that opened on the Court of the Fountain.  

Aragorn did not need to ask where they would go. He turned for the Citadel gate and the tunnel that led to the sixth circle without speaking a word. The guards at the lower gate hailed them as they strode past, and both men returned their salute. Moments later, they reached the small, wooden gate that opened on the gardens of the Houses of Healing. 

Aragorn slipped the latch. Boromir stepped onto the gravel path and started down it without waiting for his guide. He knew this path almost as minutely as he did the interior of the King's study, though he came here less often in these days of constant work and numberless duties. It was the one place where Gondor's Steward could come to be alone and at ease, without the sidelong glances of servants and courtiers upon his back or the smell of smoke and stone to unsettle him. And it was the place that held the deepest, most poignant and most treasured memories for him.

When they reached the bench, set in a curved embrasure of the outer wall, Boromir took his wonted seat in the western corner and leaned back against the cold stone. A soundless sigh passed his lips, and Aragorn fancied he could see the green eyes that he remembered so well, though he had not seen them in four long years, close in relief. 

Smiling to himself, the King settled onto the bench beside his friend and leaned his shoulders against the curved wall. His long legs stretched out, ankles crossed, his eyelids fell half closed, his hands lay at rest upon his midriff with no sword, pen or sceptre to grasp, and for a precious time, he was Strider the Ranger taking his ease in The Prancing Pony.

They sat in comfortable silence for some  minutes, then Aragorn said, "You are thinking of Merry."

"Aye, and of another night spent on these walls, dreading the dawn. Mayhap I should not have come here, but it makes me feel closer to Merry, and this night is so much the same."

Aragorn understood exactly what he meant and what he felt, both on that night four years ago and now. He felt it in his own breast – the pain of loss, tempered by the certainty that they would meet again and would, through the deep-rooted bond tied them, know of the other's wellbeing. Aragorn could not use the _palantír__ to watch his Steward, for through some trick of the ancient magic that gave the Seeing Stone its vision, when it tried to see the blind man, it too was blinded. Aragorn had attempted it many times over the years, always with the same result. When he bent the Stone's eye upon Boromir, he saw only darkness. So the place in his heart that was ever aware of Boromir came as a great comfort to this far-seeing King, who could keep all Middle-earth under his eye but not the one person in it whom he most wished to see._

"We sat through the night," Boromir murmured, "listening to the stars. Merry fell asleep, but I could not. It was like the night before a great battle, all of me alert and waiting… too aware of what was to come on the morrow to lose myself in sleep. I saved every minute of what time we had left; memorized it. I can still feel his weight against my ribs as he slept, his snores, the warmth of his body through my mail shirt. I prefer that memory to the day that followed. I hear his snores and strive to forget his tears."

"And will you remember this night as keenly?"

Boromir turned to him, his smile flashing in the darkness. "I will."

"As will I."

"Aragorn, will you do something for me?"

"Of course."

Boromir reached to his waist, pulled an object from his sword belt and held it out to the other man. It was a small scroll of parchment, sealed with the device of Anórien, with no name or direction inscribed on the outside. Aragorn took it, turned it over in his hands, then shot a glance at Boromir from beneath his lashes.

"For Merry?"

"Aye. Give it to him. See that he reads it."

"Is there any likelihood he will not?"

The smile flashed again. "Nay, but he may sulk first."

Aragorn tucked the scroll in his own belt and answered, laughing, "I will put it in his hand the moment we meet. Have you aught for Pippin and Sam?"

"I wrote them letters, as well, but those I have entrusted to your herald with the other documents and dispatches. This one I trust to no one but you."

"I will find the others and deliver them all together."

Boromir leaned back into the embrasure, his head tilting up so that his eyes seemed to gaze at the stars. "My thanks." After a quiet moment, he asked, "Does Arwen not look for you?"

"She knows where I am."

"'Tis churlish of you to leave her alone this last night in Minas Tirith."

"Nay, only consider. She will have me to herself for at least nine months, no kingdom, no nobles, no Steward to disturb us, so she can spare me for a night."

"Will you wait out the darkness with me?"

"Is that not why we came here?"

"Aye." Boromir stretched his legs out and crossed his ankles, in an unconscious imitation of Aragorn's posture, then he folded his arms across his body and rested his head on the edge of the wall. "Are the stars out?"

"They always come out for you, Boromir. It is as if you summon them at a thought."

Boromir gave a grunt of laughter.

"Nay, I am in earnest. Clouds have covered the stars all this month and more, their light never more than fitful and passing. But tonight, when you want them, they are out in all their splendor for you."

"You spend too much time with Elves," Boromir remarked, dryly, "and with my fanciful brother."

"You might enrich yourself by spending _more time in such company."_

"To what purpose, when I can already summon the stars at a whim?"

Aragorn laughed and flung his hand up in a gesture of surrender. "Enough! What do you want with the stars?"

"I just like to know they are there. Sometimes, in the small hours of the night, they sing to me."

All desire to bait his friend deserted Aragorn, and he tilted his head up to gaze at the massed stars above him. He had not exaggerated when he told Boromir that they were out in all their splendor. Distant and cold, yet so alive that he fancied he could see them moving as they danced their paths across the night sky. Small wonder that Boromir thought he could hear their music. Or mayhap, he really did.

"Have you ever heard them, Aragorn?" Boromir asked, as reading the other man's thoughts.

"Only in dreams."

"Then you do not listen closely enough. Listen."

Obediently, Aragorn closed his eyes and listened.

*** *** ***

An hour past sunrise, the King's procession left the White Tower. They walked to the music of silver trumpets, down from the Citadel gate, through the streets, while all the people of Minas Tirith crowded along the way to bid them farewell. A company of the Guard went first, resplendent in their black and silver livery and lofty helms. Behind them came the King's standard-bearer, with the great standard of King Elessar Telcontar held proudly where all the crowd could see its gems flash in the sunlight. Aragorn and Arwen walked together behind their standard, with Faramir and Éowyn following. Boromir walked on Faramir's right hand, guided by Gil, and all the Court trailed after them in a noble, glittering throng.

The people cried out with joy at the sight of their sovereigns, and they wept at the royal duty that now took them so far from Minas Tirith and Gondor. They threw flowers to the Queen and the White Lady of Rohan, called greetings to the beloved Princes who walked in the King's train, and cheered to see the brave soldiers of Gondor who led the way. As the procession passed, they fell into step behind it, singing, so that most of the population of the city flooded out of the gates behind the official party, spreading along the walls and mingling with those who already waited upon the Pelennor fields.

The Dúnedain stood, with their mounts, beside the road that led north from the gates. The servants and carts that were to follow in the King's train were pulled up on the road beyond the Grey Company, awaiting the order to set out. And all the length of the road, from the walls of Minas Tirith to the Rammas Echor a mile distant, was lined with people come to catch a glimpse of King Elessar and his Elvish Queen as they rode by.

Aragorn strode onto the roadway and lifted his hand to halt the procession. The trumpets ceased their music, and the watching throng fell quiet. They waited for him to speak some word of farewell to them, but he turned instead to the man standing quietly at his side.

At the touch of the King's hand on his arm, the Steward stepped away from the squire who had guided his steps from the Citadel and went down on one knee before his liege lord. Aragorn clasped Boromir's hands between his own and bent his head to say, "I leave my realm, my crown and my people in your care, Boromir."

"I will not fail you, my king."

"I know you will not. I have no token to give you as a symbol of the power I entrust to you. The Crown of Eärnur lies in its wonted place, in the House of the Kings. The Sceptre of Annúminas goes with me into Arnor, that my people there will know their King. The white staff of Stewardship you already hold. And yet, I would give you aught by which all Gondor will know her lord and acknowledge the King's love that is ever with him."

Turning to the Captain of the Dúnedain who stood behind him, Aragorn held out his hand. The man laid a small, shining object in his palm and stepped back. Then Aragorn held aloft the token given him by the grey captain, and all those standing outside the walls could see that it was a star – the very star that he had worn on his brow when he first rode to the gates of the White City to claim his crown.

"Bear witness, people of Gondor, that I give into Boromir's keeping the Star of the Dúnedain, symbol of my blood and my birthright, and treasured heirloom of my House!" Dropping his voice so only those nearest heard, he bound the silver fillet around Boromir's brow and said, "A fitting gift for the man who summons stars at need."

"Aragorn, there is no need…"

"Peace. I would have it so." He drew the Steward to his feet and pressed a kiss to his brow. "Farewell, Boromir."

"Farewell, my king."

The two men embraced, and though the Steward could not weep at their parting, the King's eyes were bright with tears. Then Aragorn turned swiftly away to find his mount, hiding his face from those gathered about him. Boromir received the Queen's embrace and parting kiss, then stood a moment in talk with Faramir and Éowyn. When at last all the goodbyes were said and the last rider had mounted, Boromir held out his hand and his squire stepped up beside him.

Aragorn urged Roheryn into the middle of the wide, paved road, facing the city gates, and rose in his stirrups. In a great voice that echoed back from the soaring white walls, he cried, "Farewell, people of Gondor! Live in peace and prosperity until I return, and fear no darkness! Your King is ever with you, ever watching and guiding you! No harm will befall you in your Steward's care! Look for me when the Autumn lengthens into Winter, when I will ride once more to your gates and take up my Crown! Farewell, Gondor! Farewell!"

Then he wheeled his mount to the north and urged it forward. As the rest of the company fell into place around him, a song went up from the gathered people, and kerchiefs fluttered from every hand. There were few flowers yet blooming, but every garden in the city and on the Pelennor had been stripped, and a softly scented rain of petals fell about the shoulders of the riders and under the hooves of the horses as they passed. Slowly, Aragorn rode the first mile of his royal Progress to the Rammas Echor, to the sound of his people's farewell song.

Boromir stood quietly before the gates, a pace or two ahead of the watching nobles so that he did not have to speak to any of them. Gil was tense and silent, her shoulder stiff beneath his hand. They stood together for a long time, while the King's train rode out of sight, the people gradually disbursed, and the courtiers at their backs returned to the city. They stood until Boromir heard Gil give a small, wordless sigh and felt her shoulder droop fractionally.

"They are gone," she said.

"Did they reach the Rammas Echor?"

"I think so. The shadows of the forest have swallowed up the Guards' silver helmets."

"Come, then. Let us to work."

Gil turned immediately and lead the way into the city, back to the Citadel and the duties that awaited them. 

**_To be continued…_**


	3. Poisons in the Mud

**Author's Note:** Here, at last, is Chapter 3. I apologize for the long wait, but I won't bore you with the litany of reasons why it took so long to write this. Thank you all for your patience and for sticking with me through a long dry spell. I truly do appreciate it!

My heartfelt thanks to everyone who reviewed or wrote to me privately! You keep me writing, even when the weight of the story not yet written seems to crush me. This is for you and for everyone who loves Boromir as he deserves. g Thank you!

Enjoy!  -- Chevy

***** *** *****

**Chapter 3: _Poisons in the Mud_**

The Steward was bored. Gil could see it in the impatient set of his lips, hear it in the bite of his voice, and sense it in his restless, discontented bursts of activity. He spent more and more of his days outside the city, roaming the countryside with the page, Borlas, perched before him in Fedranth's saddle and Master Legolas at his side. His forays into the woods of Anórien or Ithilien always mended his temper, for a time, and for that Gil welcomed them. But his absences were a trial to her, and days such as this one, when he rode out at sunup and left her to her own devices, seemed endless.

It was no part of Gil's nature to indulge her feelings or make them public. If she was lonely without Boromir's company, she did not voice it even to herself. If she hated the atmosphere of the Citadel when he was not in it, she did not betray it by word or look to any creature. If she secretly wished that propriety and her own sense of fitness would allow her to climb into Fedranth's saddle and ride with her lord through the countryside, that she might never have to spend a day apart from him, she squelched that wish as ruthlessly as she did the impertinence of young, unwary squires who thought to make her an easy mark for their raillery.

In one way, Gil enjoyed her solitary days. She liked being in Boromir's chambers when he was gone. They felt comforting and safe, isolated from the currents of politics, enmity and alliance that flowed throughout the Citadel, and filled with Boromir's presence. Gil would not come here when Boromir was in the city for fear that rude tongues might wag and start rumors of indiscretion. But in his absence, this was her retreat, and not even Lord Taleris could gainsay her right to be here.

From her perch in the deep window embrasure, she watched the movement of tiny figures across the plains so far below and strained her eyes for some glimpse of her lord on his magnificent grey horse. Boromir's chambers were high in the Tower, their windows facing the north and east, affording her a wide view of the Pelennor, Anduin and the hill of Emyn Arnen rising from the leafy skirts of Ithilien, with the Mountains of Shadow looming behind. 

A ship stood at the quay of the Harlond, sailors and dock laborers swarming over it. The air was still, and the banner at the masthead hung limp, but Gil thought she could glimpse pale blue and deep green among its folds. That would most likely mean that it came from Lord Ciryon in Lebennin. As she watched, great nets filled with cargo swung over the ship's rails. She saw no sign of noble passengers – no flash of banners or livery, no armed retinue – but one man had left the quay soon after the shipped docked and was already approaching the gates of the city. A herald, she guessed, though she could not make out his dress or device from so far away.

Idly, Gil watched the progress of the work aboard ship. She had no particular interest in goods from the Mouths of Anduin, but she had no duties to perform and nothing pressing on her mind, so this was as much entertainment as she could look for on a sleepy summer day. In between chuckling over the antics of the carters' mules and wondering how many men it took to unload a single net of dried fish bales, she kept track of the herald's progress up through the circles of the city. 

At last, he stepped through the upper gate and strode across the Court, a guardsman escorting him. Gil leaned out of the window to get a look at him and saw, unmistakably, the leather tube slung across his back that declared him a messenger. She hesitated for a bare moment, trying to decide whether or not she should put herself forward when Boromir was not here, then she hopped down from the embrasure and hurried from the room.

Bounding lightly down the steps in a way that her drudge's skirts would never have allowed, she reached the first floor of the tower, just as the guardsman ushered their guest up the wide, stone stairway from the main antechamber. Here, one flight up from the Great Hall and Council Chamber of Gondor's Citadel, were the more serviceable and less awe-inspiring rooms where the King actually managed the business of his realm. Taleris had adopted one such chamber as his own, in Lord Elfstone's absence, and it was to his door that the guardsman escorted the herald.

Gil crossed the wide, cool hallway and halted beside the guard, just as the herald stepped up to Taleris' desk and bowed respectfully to him.

"I bear letters from Lord Ciryon of Lebennin to the Steward of Gondor," the stranger said.

"The Steward is not in the city at present. You may give them to me." Gil fancied that Taleris was making an effort to be genial, but his lips were pulled too tightly against his teeth and his eyes glittered strangely when he looked at the device of the leaping fish on the herald's breast. When the man hesitated, he added more tartly, "Come, Master Herald, your letters."

The herald bowed again and handed the tube to Taleris without comment. As the old lord took it from him, his eyes skimmed the guardsman at the door and lighted upon Gil. His face froze and his lips twisted into a cold sneer. Gil was accustomed to this reaction in him, but to her surprise, she saw a new wariness in his eyes when they touched her. A prickle of curiosity and apprehension crawled over her scalp.

"What business have you here, girl?" Taleris snapped.

Her face wooden and her eyes veiled behind lowered lids, she bowed with perfect courtesy and replied, "I saw the messenger arrive and thought I might be of service, as my lord is from home."

Taleris opened his mouth to order her away then seemed to think better of it. "You may indeed be of service." The way he stressed the last word made it an insult. "Take this man to the lower halls and see that he is made welcome."

Gil stepped back, bowed again, and gestured for the herald to walk with her. The guardsman saluted briskly and turned to the stairs, nodding slightly to Gil as he caught her eye. Then he clattered away toward the antechamber and his post in the Court of the Fountain. Gil and the herald turned in the opposite direction, toward the inner stair and the lower regions of the Citadel.

As they started down the narrow, curving stairway, and the open door to Taleris' chamber disappeared behind them, the herald said, quietly, "If my eyes do not deceive me, you are a maid."

Gil answered, neutrally, "You are not deceived."

"Is it the custom now, in Minas Tirith, for women to serve as squires?"

"No more the custom than in Lebennin, I deem."

The man halted, one foot still on the stair above, and caught her arm. "Then you are the one they call Gil. The Steward's Squire."

Gil eyed him warily from behind her wooden mask. "I am."

Letting go of her arm, he reached to the pouch that hung on his belt and prized it open. "My lord charged me to place this in none but the Steward's hands or yours." He laid a small, thick roll of parchment in her hand, turned so that the heavy wax seal was clearly visible. It bore the device of the leaping fish of Ethir Anduin. "Take it and keep it close. None but your lord must hear it."

Gil felt again the telltale prickle of curiosity and unease go through her. With a small nod of understanding, she tucked the scroll into the front of her surcote and smoothed the black velvet over it. It sat against her ribs like a portent of doom. "None will know of it save my lord."

"So I trust." He started down the stairs again, his manner now relaxed and a smile in his eyes when he turned to look at her. "The faithfulness of the Steward's Squire is legend, even so far south as Ethir Anduin."

Gil gave a grunt of amused disgust and pushed open the door at the bottom of the stairs. "Come, Master Herald. Your dinner awaits."

Gil turned their guest over to the Chamberlain and spent the rest of the afternoon in Boromir's chambers, though not to sit and watch the ships at the Harlond or the farmers in their fields. Before she had missed Boromir. Now she chafed with impatience to see his tall, straight figure ride through the gates. She paced the room, her feet silent on the thick carpet, pausing in each circuit at the window to measure the length of the shadows on the fields below. And each time, she would press her hand to the spot where Ciryon's letter lay hidden, wondering what secret it held.

It was dusk when, at last, Boromir returned. Gil was ready for him, having seen his progress up from the gate, and she met him at the door of his chamber where Borlas left him, with his body servant hovering behind her. Boromir strode into the room, bringing the smell of horse sweat and summer fields with him and seeming to fill the room with his presence. He unfastened his cloak and tossed it to Gil, then moved unerringly to the chair that always stood beneath an open window.

"Good evening, my lord," Gil said. "There is water for washing and wine for drinking. Which will you have first?"

"Wine, Gil. Give me wine and help me off with these boots." He dropped into the chair with a groan. "Then we will talk of washing." 

Gil placed a silver cup, already filled, in his hand and motioned the servant forward to take his boots.

"A plague take Legolas and all his kind," Boromir said, as the boots came reluctantly away from his feet. "A bow is no weapon for a soldier."

"Did you not hit your mark, my lord?" Gil asked.

"It would serve me better to have hit the Elf," he grumbled, telling Gil that his archery lesson had not gone well. "There must be aught of use in Gondor for her Steward to do, besides shooting arrows at noises in the grass and being tongue-lashed by an Elf. What news have you for me, Gil?"

"There is a ship newly come from Lebennin."

Alerted by her carefully flat voice, Boromir straightened up in his chair and turned his bandaged gaze on her. "Is there, indeed?"

"Carrying a messenger from Lord Ciryon."

"Where is this messenger?"

"In the care of the Chamberlain."

"And his message?"

"In the hands of Lord Taleris."

"Confound you, Gil, I know that voice. Out with it. What's amiss?"

Gil shot a glance at the servant, who had busied himself by the hearth with his master's dusty boots, and said, "My lord, I must speak with you alone."

"Leave us, Emrys," Boromir said, his gaze finding the servant unerringly. "Go to Master Legolas and tell him that I will be delayed, then get you to your own supper."

Gil followed Emrys to the door and bolted it behind him. Then she pulled the letter from her surcote and crossed back to Boromir's chair. "Here, my lord," she said, touching the scroll lightly to the back of his hand, "this is for you."

He turned his hand, in obedience to her signal, and took the scroll. As his fingers slid over the wax seal, he frowned. "What is it?"

"A letter from Lord Ciryon, given me in secret with orders that no one but you should hear it."

Boromir's frown deepened, but he wasted no time with questions his squire could not answer. Breaking the wax with a flick of his thumb, he held the letter out to Gil and said, "Read it."

She took the scroll from him and unrolled the single sheet of parchment. The light in the room was failing, and she could not make out the writing until she crouched by the window and spread it flat on the stone sill. There, the last remnants of daylight fell upon the paper.

The letter began abruptly, without the usual flourishes and greetings, and Gil felt the prickles of unease start again as she scanned the first lines. She could not read quickly or with animation, and she sometimes hesitated over badly-penned or difficult words, but Boromir was used to her style and did not try to hurry her. He merely sat, waiting, until she began to read aloud in her flat, colorless way.

_My Lord Steward,_

_I write to you in haste and some urgency. My borders are beset, my people threatened, and my pleas for guidance from the King have gone unanswered. Thus it is I turn to you for succor in the hope that you are still, as you have ever been, our staunch friend and strong shield arm._

_The Haradrim are moving. They gather in the disputed lands to the east in far greater numbers than we have ever seen, and my spies tell me they carry weapons of war. They have not, as yet, done violence to our own people in that region, but it can only be a matter of time, and they draw too near the River for safety. They mean war. Of this I am certain._

_I would send my men across the River to garrison the disputed lands and protect our borders, but for the law made by your own father forbidding such action. To my knowledge, the King has not changed that law, and I am loath to take up arms in lands not my own without his leave, but if I hear nothing from you, I will do it. I cannot do otherwise and keep faith with my people._

_I must now broach a grave matter to you, my lord. I must place my trust in a man I once, to my shame, bitterly opposed, and I can but hope that you have forgiven me. Bluntly, I believe some treachery is afoot. Twice have I written to the King, once ere he departed west and once since, deeming the first letter lost by some accident and the Steward well able to advise me in the King's absence. I know not to whose hand and eye those letters came. I know only that they did not reach King Elessar, for I must believe that he would not leave me thus, unanswered and unaided._

_This letter you now read is known only to myself and my herald, a man I trust implicitly. He has orders that none but you or your squire shall learn of it. Know, by this, that I believe you blameless in the treachery that works against me and place all my faith in you, my Steward and liege lord. If I am wrong, then all is lost. But I am not wrong. Boromir, son of Denethor, would not betray Gondor's lords or Gondor's people. And so I look to the son of Denethor for the help I sorely need._

_Give me leave to take armed men across the River and garrison the settlements of __South Gondor__. Give me leave to summon troops from the fiefdoms adjoining mine and form an alliance with those lords and princes who can best support me. Lastly, give me some assurance that Gondor's Crown will come to the aid of Lebennin, should the war I fear take shape._

_I pray you, do not delay your answer. Time grows short. And I caution you to guard your back, my lord Steward. All is not well in the __White__City__._

_Ever your servant,_

_Ciryon, Lord of Lebennin_

Gil finished reading and lifted her head to gaze at Boromir. He sat very still, face harsh and scowling, lips pressed tightly together, and hands clenched on the arms of the chair. She could almost hear the anger bubbling up in him, made all the more terrible by his stillness.

"My lord?" she ventured.

Boromir's head snapped around and his blind gaze fixed on her. He bared his teeth in something that was not a smile. "Taleris." 

Gil did not answer, for she deemed that Boromir needed none. He flung himself out of the chair and began to pace furiously about the room, keeping to the middle of the floor where he knew there was no furniture to hinder him. His hand opened and closed with every step, as if he missed the weight of a sword in his grip.

"Taleris… Taleris… so diligent in the sifting and reading of the King's letters. So dutiful. So eager to be of help. Taleris, who stood atop Ciryon's fortress tower and saw nothing moving in South Gondor save wind and sand." He stopped abruptly and turned toward Gil. "There were official letters as well, you say?"

"Aye."

He pulled another fierce grimace. "I have a mind to hear those letters, Gil. I wonder what the diligent Lord Taleris has done with them?"

"Shall I fetch them, lord?"

"Nay, I will fetch them myself."

Gil moved promptly to the hearth, where his boots lay, and picked them up. Crossing back to the chair with them, she murmured, "Your boots, lord."

Boromir sat down and pulled on his footgear. Then he came swiftly to his feet and held out his hand. Gil stepped into his clasp, and together, they moved toward the door. 

In the passageway, a servant was lighting candles in the wall sconces at the top of the stairway. Those few candles were the only light on this floor of the Tower, as the King allowed no torches here and no flame at all near the Steward's door. It had taken an army of servants two days of scrubbing to get the smell of torches out of the stone walls, and Boromir still grimaced sometimes at the telltale odor of soot and stale fire. But servants and visitors needed some small measure of light to guide their footsteps, so Aragorn permitted candles at either end of the corridor, far from Boromir's chambers.

Gil matched her stride to Boromir's impatience and brought him swiftly to the head of the stair. He put his free hand on the wall, fingers trailing lightly along the rough stone, and bounded down the steps almost too fast for Gil to keep up. Down and around they went, following the curve of the Tower past many floors, until they reached the one where Taleris kept his office.

When they strode up to Taleris' door, they found it standing open and the old lord seated behind a table stacked with parchment. He glanced up, as Steward and squire walked into the room, and Gil caught a glint of pure hatred in his eyes. But he was clearly expecting Boromir. He pushed back his chair and rose courteously to his feet.

"My lord Steward."

Boromir pinned him with his bandaged gaze and nodded once, curtly.

"You have heard about the messenger from Lebennin, I deem."

"I have," Boromir held out his hand, "and I would see the letters he carried."

"Certainly." Taleris, Gil noted, had the letters sitting directly in front of him, stacked neatly in readiness. He picked them up, rolled them into a loose scroll, and laid them in Boromir's hand, saying, "I knew you would come to fetch them, else I would have brought them to you myself. They bring dire news. All is not well in the South."

"Indeed?" Boromir smiled humorlessly at him and lifted the roll of parchment in a mock salute. "I thank you for the warning."

As the Steward turned for the door, Taleris said, a fawning note in his voice that set Gil's teeth on edge, "I will gladly advise you in this matter, lord Boromir, should you wish it. These are lands I both know and love, and I am loath to see them suffer this way. I am anxious to be of help!"

"I will not know what advice or help I need, until I read the letters." With that, Boromir turned on his heel and strode out, leaving Taleris still standing behind his littered table. 

"To Aragorn's study," Boromir growled.

He did not, in truth, need Gil's guidance to find that room, high in the Tower, where Steward and King kept their private sanctum. But he needed her for other duties, and Gil would no more think of leaving him to find his own way than she would push him off the city walls. She brought him to the chamber door and there left him, knowing he could find his way about the room without her, to light a pair of fat candles that stood on the table.

Boromir did not take his usual seat but perched on the edge of the table and turned a grim face to his squire. "What say you, Gil? Did he give us the same letters Ciryon sent?"

Gil took the scroll from his hand and spread the parchment out on the table. She scanned the first document as quickly as she dared, her lips moving in silent speech as she read. It was a letter writ in the usual formal manner – begun with lengthy salutations and many titles, and ended with a familiar seal set in green wax – but it was essentially the same as the one sent in secret to Boromir. The second document proved to be a list of settlements, headcounts, reports from agents of new incursions from the East and descriptions of weaponry. On an impulse, Gil took the private letter from her surcote and spread it out beside the larger scroll. They were written in the same hand. 

"He did, lord, or so I deem. Would you hear them?"

Boromir waved that away, scowling. "Nay, not if they tell the same tale."

"There is much more, here. Lord Ciryon has been watching the movements of the Haradrim for some months and noted it all down."

"You shall read it me, but not now. Not now." His scowl deepened, and Gil sensed a rising excitement in him, on the point of bursting out in a fever of activity. "Why would he give me the letters, if it was he who hid the others?"

"Mayhap it was not he."

Boromir shot her an impatient look. "It was. It could be no other. But why, then…"

Swift, light footsteps sounded in the hallway, interrupting Boromir's thoughts and bringing him to his feet. He was already halfway across the room when Legolas strode in. Holding out his hand, he cried, "Legolas! You are come in good time!"

"What is this, my lord Steward? First you disdain my company at supper, and now you greet me as a rescuer!" the Elf said, laughing. "Am I spurned or welcomed?"

"Leave off your fooling," Boromir snapped, though the smile lingered on his face. "This is a serious matter."

"So I gather from your churlish mood. What's amiss?"

"Give him the letters, Gil."

With Boromir hovering and muttering about him, Legolas sat down to read the letters. He mastered them quickly, but not quickly enough to suit Boromir, who was already firing questions and speculations at him before he had laid down the last sheet of parchment. Finally, he slid the papers aside and lifted his keen eyes, no longer alight with laughter, to the Steward's face.

"You are right. It must be Taleris who kept the letters from reaching Aragorn. Was it not Taleris himself who brought the missives back from the southern fiefdoms? The ones that assured Aragorn all was well and it was safe to leave Gondor?"

"Aye."

"Ciryon writes of sending word to the King before he departed on his Progress. That would mean he sent it in Taleris' keeping."

Boromir pondered that for a moment, nodding. "Most likely. There was a letter from Ciryon among those Taleris brought that said naught of threats to the east, but he would have ample time to write such a letter himself and destroy the original."

"And the second one sent, after Aragorn's departure?"

"That would be simpler still. Taleris is deputed to handle all matters concerning the southern lands that do not require the Steward's weight to settle them. No one would wonder at his receiving dispatches from Lebennin. They would not even think to tell me, so natural would it seem. If Gil had not seen the messenger today…" He straightened up suddenly, his shrouded gaze turning instinctively to find Legolas. "Ah! That explains it!"

"Be a little clearer, I beg you."

"That is why Taleris gave me the letters tonight, instead of turning me off with a lie. Gil saw the dispatches in his hand, and he knew she would tell me of them."

Now it was the Elf's turn to ponder. He did not frown, pace or chew his lip as Boromir did, but he became very still until it seemed as though he barely breathed. After a long moment, he said, "It seems plain enough. Taleris knew you would demand the letters. Either he did not have time to write a second false letter, to replace these, or he deemed it too dangerous to play the same trick twice, and he gave you the real ones. But this means that you have no proof of his tampering."

"I need no further proof!" Boromir snarled. "I _know!_"

"What steps can you in justice take, based solely on your knowing?"

"None, as you well know!" The Steward flung himself away from the table and began to prowl the floor like a caged animal. "Had I one scrap of paper with which to condemn him, I would hurl him into the deepest dungeon in all Gondor and let him _rot!_ But as it stands, I can do naught to punish him, the wretched cur!"

"What will you do?" Legolas asked.

Boromir halted and turned to grin fiercely at his friend. "Much to help Ciryon, and mayhap a thing or two to hinder Taleris. Gil!"

"My lord?"

"Run quickly and fetch Ciryon's herald. Also, bring me the Chamberlain, Aragorn's chief secretary, and the captain who commands the Fourth Company of the Citadel. Send Borlas for the Guard captain. I want you back here, double-quick.

"Aye, lord."

Gil flew through the Tower in search of the people Boromir wanted. She found Borlas first and sent him on his errand to the Guard barracks, then she plunged into the lower halls to rout out the rest. She escorted the herald to the King's study herself and stood quietly by while Boromir questioned him about his lord's attempts to reach Aragorn. The man knew nothing save what Ciryon had told him upon giving him the letters, so Boromir did not press him.

"You will sail for Lebennin at sunrise tomorrow," he said, "and you will take an answer back to your lord. Wait in the chamber next to this until my squire brings it to you, then go straight to the lower halls with the Chamberlain and stay there. Do not venture into the main part of the Citadel. My guardsmen will escort you to the Harlond come morning."

The herald bowed and left, and Boromir turned his fierce attention on the Chamberlain. His commands were brief and precise, and he sent the man hurrying away to prepare a room for the herald. Aragorn's secretary was set to writing letters, which Boromir rapped out in an even more abrupt style than usual. First the letter to Ciryon, granting him all that he had requested and assuring him of the Crown's aid in any armed conflict that arose. Then another letter, to be copied and sent to the lords of Lossarnach, Belfalas, northern Lebennin, and Dor-en-Ernil, to Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Beregond of Ithilien, commanding them to lend Ciryon men, arms and counsel, and to ward their own borders against threats from the east.

In the middle of composing this missive, he was interrupted by the arrival of the Guard captain. Borlas ushered the man into the room, looking flushed and excited. Gil drew him to one side with a twitch of her head and sat him down on the hearth to await Boromir's further orders. The captain stood to attention in the middle of the carpet, eyeing the Steward with respect and a kind of stiff-legged, bristling devotion that reminded Gil of a dog guarding its beloved master.

"You sent for me, my lord?" the soldier rapped out.

"Aye. You are come in good time. Only let me finish this letter."

"I am yours to command, my lord."

Boromir dictated the closing lines of his letter to the secretary, then he leaned against the edge of the table and crossed  his arms, looking entirely relaxed and more than a little dangerous. Gil, who knew his moods and gestures so well, sensed a deep, grim satisfaction in him. "I want three errand-riders sent to me immediately, Captain, prepared to travel at first light."

The captain nodded. "Aye, lord."

"And I want six of your men to escort a messenger to the Harlond, also at first light."

"Aye, lord."

"Lastly, Captain, you will make it known to all Companies, most especially to the Citadel Guard, that any letter, dispatch or message that arrives in Minas Tirith is to come to my hands and my hands only. Lord Taleris is not to touch an official document, regardless of who sent it. The man who puts a letter in Taleris' hands will be discharged and turned out of the city! Do I make myself clear?"

"Aye, lord." The captain looked highly uncomfortable, but at the same time, curious.

"And Captain?" Boromir smiled, and the captain flinched. "Do not be subtle about it. Make certain Lord Taleris hears you issuing the order."

"If he challenges it, my lord?"

The smile widened into a grin. "Send him to me."

As the captain saluted and marched out of the room, Boromir turned to Legolas and said, smugly, "Let us see how long it takes the old cur to come sniffing about my boots."

*** *** ***

Taleris eyed the growing crowd in the tavern sourly, his expression of noble disdain at odds with his merchant's garb. The air was thick with the smoke of tallow candles and the stench of too many bodies in too small a space, the room alive with the sound of ribald laughter. This was market day on the Pelennor, which meant that every laborer, artisan and farmer with a coin or two in his pouch eventually found his way through the city gates and into one alehouse or another. By sundown, every such establishment below the fifth circle would be crammed to bursting. This one had not yet reached that state, but it was far too crowded for Taleris' comfort, and he had to drive off many a poacher from his table in the privacy of a dark corner.

When yet another figure loomed up beside him, Taleris turned on the intruder with a snarl. Then he saw Gabril's black eyes gleaming maliciously at him from beneath his close leather cap, and he relaxed. 

"What took you so long?" he grumbled, as the other man turned to signal the barkeep with a raised hand.

"What has put you in such a temper?" Gabril countered. He folded his wiry frame into the chair opposite Taleris and smiled at him mirthlessly. "You are sour as week-old milk."

"The Steward knows."

Gabril blinked at him, taken aback but not visibly troubled by his announcement. "Knows what?"

"That the Haradrim have moved into South Gondor in great numbers and now threaten the borders of Lebennin. You must withdraw your people at once. Pull back behind the Harad Road before Ciryon musters his troops to cross Anduin and finds you where you should not be!"

The man of Harad stared at him coolly and said, "That is not possible."

"What? That Boromir knows of your movements? I tell you he does!"

They fell silent, as the barkeep trundled up to them with a foaming tankard and set it down before Gabril. Only when the man was lost to sight in the smoke and the press of people did Gabril speak again. Leaning toward Taleris and dropping his voice, he murmured with threatening softness, "Nay. 'Tis not possible for the Haradrim to retreat."

"Then you will die!" Taleris hissed.

Gabril shrugged philosophically. "All Men die. If our time is now, then we will embrace it."

"Mayhap the Men of your land embrace death, but I, for one, prefer to live."

The black eyes glittered at him, full of laughter and contempt. "I have marked it."

"I am not willing to die for Harad's cause."

"You do not march with Harad's men; why then should you die with them? You sit safely in your White Tower and collect your fees, while my people perish upon the sands of Harad from hunger or upon the fields of Gondor in battle. What concern is it of yours how _many_ perish?"

Taleris bared his teeth in a snarl and whispered, fiercely, "Your people will die an honorable death, fighting for land and survival. I will die a traitor's death – alone, despised, forced to kneel and bare my neck to an executioner's sword! Or mayhap the good Steward will set his tame Elf to put an arrow through me! You choose to mock me, Gabril, call me coward, sneer at the safety in which I live, but you know nothing of my peril! _Nothing!_"

"Because there is no peril."

"I tell you, _Boromir knows!_" The wild fury and panic in Taleris' eyes made Gabril sit back abruptly, distancing himself from the old lord. Taleris ignored his retreat and continued to rail, "By some agent, some hidden means, he knows of the letters Ciryon sent. Letters that never arrived. Letters that went astray when in _my_ keeping! He has given orders that I am to touch no official document! Any man who puts such a document in my hand is discharged from the King's service and banished from the city! _And_ I am barred from his councils. I! The King's deputy! Denethor's most trusted advisor and support throughout his years of rule! Left standing outside the Council chamber with the door shut in my face, while the Steward's blind bastard of a son plans a war in _my fiefdoms!_"

Gabril shot out a hand to grip his arm. "_Hsst!_ Calm yourself! You will end by getting us both clapped in irons, you fool!"

Taleris swallowed painfully and glanced about the room, looking for signs of interest in the drinkers around them. No one seemed to have noticed his outburst. "I am calm." He threw off Gabril's hand and took a swallow of ale to wet his throat. "I am done."

Gabril eyed him narrowly for a moment, then demanded, "If Boromir knows of your part in this, why are you walking free, instead of languishing in some dank hole of a dungeon?"

"He has no proof to set before the Lords of the Council. But he will have proof enough, if he speaks to Ciryon."

"We have already agreed that Ciryon will die."

Taleris shot him a sour look. "You will find him hard to kill, with the armies of Gondor massed along the River to contest your crossing." His face contorted in an ugly smile at Gabril's startled reaction. "From Ringló Vale to Anduin, Boromir has called up the men of the South to defend our borders. I saw the dispatches go out at dawn today, carried by land and by water, too many of them to waylay even if I dared! Your plans are exposed, Man of Harad, your people in danger, your foe warned of your coming and risen against you. And there is another thing to consider."

"What thing?"

"Boromir has granted Ciryon leave to send armed men across the River."

The black eyes widened. "That is against your own law!"

"Aye, but what cares Boromir for our law? His _father's_ law? What Denethor deemed wise, Boromir deems inconvenient, and so he sets it aside. And now, my friend, your people will find themselves hard pressed to reach the River at all. They are scattered, trying to hide their numbers, and easy pickings for the men of Lebennin. The Haradrim will never form an army and never cross Anduin. Ciryon will live to tell his tales of me, and Boromir will have my head on a pike as a present for his vagabond king."

Gabril waved off this bitter prediction impatiently. He seemed to have regained his balance, if not his sense of humor, and now chewed thoughtfully on his underlip, eyes fixed on the tankard in his hands. "You go too quickly from hindrance to despair, my lord."

"And you count too heavily upon victory, when your swords are not yet blooded nor your battle lines drawn."

"The troops in South Gondor are a nuisance, no more. We always meant to kill the men of Lebennin. We will simply do it on the eastern shore of Anduin, rather than the western."

"And the army?"

"Ah. The army."

Taleris threw him a wary glance, unsettled by the note of satisfaction in his voice. "This will be no rabble of fishermen and peasants, bearing staves. These are the Men who met Sauron's vast armies upon the Pelennor Fields and defeated them."

"Defeated _us_."

"Aye."

"But then they had a leader, a general. A King."

"Boromir wields the power of the King, and he commands the heart of every soldier in Gondor."

"So he does." Gabril smiled, and Taleris felt a frisson of alarm go through him. "I see a way out of both our difficulties, my lord. A very plain way."

"What way is this?" Taleris asked, suspiciously.

"Kill Boromir."

The old lord's face froze, his eyes wide with shock and his mouth agape. 

Gabril chuckled and took a long swallow from his tankard. Wiping his lips on his sleeve, he smacked them in appreciation and said, comfortably, "All Gondor is thrown into chaos. The soldiery lose their beloved general. Imrahil is summoned in haste to Minas Tirith to rule, where he finds his trusted friend of many years ready to support him. And Taleris' treachery is forever hidden. What say you? Is it not an elegant solution?"

"Elegant?" Taleris pulled his mouth shut with a snap and brought his fist crashing down on the table. "'Tis _madness!_"

"How madness? Do you not want the cur dead?"

"It matters naught what I want! I will have no part in this folly!"

"Ah." Gabril sat back, his lips curling in a contemptuous sneer. "We are grown timid again. You need not strike the blow, Taleris. 'Tis a simple enough thing… a knife in the dark, an arrow from a rooftop… Weight the body with stones, feed it to the River, and the deed is done. I have men eager enough to do it."

"Nay!" Taleris was passing beyond anger, beyond fear, into a place of fevered, desperate resolve. "Hear me, Gabril, and heed what I say. Boromir must not be touched!"

"_Must not?_ This is folly, indeed! I am not your servant, my lord of Gondor, nor am I subject to your commands."

"Have you any idea what King Elessar will do to you, if you harm his steward? Better to crawl back into your sandpits and starve to death! Better that you were never born!"

"Now we go from folly to fantasy."

"I was there when he condemned two men for an attempt on Boromir's life. They were dupes of greater men, no true assassins, and they gave Boromir no more than a scratch, yet they lost their heads for it. I saw the King's own kinsman and captain shot down in the street, like a mad dog, because he lifted his hand against Boromir. And not one tear did Elessar shed for him. Not one tear, for a lifetime of love and service ended with an arrow through the neck."

"I do not fear your king's anger. He is far away, and I am but one among thousands of my people, faceless and nameless to him."

"But not to me." Taleris bared his teeth in a humorless smile. "When Elessar rides down upon us, like a storm out of the West, I will not face his wrath alone. I will deliver you up to him."

"Then you are base, as well as cowardly."

"And you are thrice a fool if you think I will suffer for your act!"

"You were willing enough to have Ciryon die, and you call him friend."

Taleris cracked his hand down on the table and snarled, "Enough! We are deadlocked, you and I, and it is time we faced it! You can expose me as a traitor. I can expose you as a conspirator and would-be assassin."

"At least I am no coward."

Taleris' rage boiled over, and he lurched to his feet, knocking his chair over with a crash. He could feel the eyes of the room upon him, but he was beyond caring. Leaning over to bring his face within a hand span of Gabril's, he whispered between his teeth, "Call me that again, and I will kill you myself."

"Or die in the attempt, more likely."

"I am not afraid to try, though you think me such a coward."

"Go home to your master," Gabril said, coldly. "He doubtless needs your help to find the privy."

"Remember what I said, Gabril. It was no idle threat."

The other man gave no answer, only slumped back in his chair and lifted his tankard to his lips. Taleris could not determine, from the insolent, sneering mask of his face, whether he had believed his warnings. With all the room staring at them, he could say no more of the matter. He could only pull the shreds of his dignity about him and stride out of the tavern. He turned once to look back at Gabril, but the thick, smoky air and gloomy shadows hid him from sight, and he left none the wiser as to what the Man of Harad planned for Gondor's Steward.

**_To be continued…_**


	4. Slings and Arrows

**Chapter 4: _Slings and Arrows_**

Boromir crouched in the shelter of a tree, his bow bent, an arrow fitted to the string, straining every nerve to catch the tiny sounds from the far side of the clearing. It was very warm for an autumn day and the air was still. The dry leaves above his head barely stirred, and the rustle of delicate feet in the tall, brittle grass carried clearly to him. 

A runnel of sweat trickled down his neck. A fly buzzed past his ear and alighted on his hand. Beneath his heavy, mailed jerkin, his shirt stuck to his ribs in a most irritating fashion that made him long to lay down his bow, strip off his outer clothing, and scratch all the places that itched. Only rigid discipline and utter horror at the prospect of facing Legolas' censure, should he miss his shot, kept Boromir poised and still under the onslaught of so many distractions.

They had spent much of the morning tracking the deer to this clearing, and after tramping through half of Ithilien in its wake, Boromir was determined not to let the beast escape him. He would dine on venison this night. And he would prove to Legolas, once and for all, that his brother was not the only marksman in the family. 

The creature took yet another step and paused to eat from yet another branch. Boromir had no trouble in placing it, but he could not be sure how large it was or how high from the ground it stood. A misplaced arrow might injure without killing it, and then they would face the grim task of pursuing it through the forest to dispatch it. 

The veteran soldier, used as he was to the hard labor of wielding sword and shield, found this silent waiting a trial, and his muscles were beginning to ache from the unaccustomed pose he held, when he at last heard the sound he had been waiting for. As it moved to nibble at another spot, the deer carelessly knocked its antler against the trunk of a tree, giving off a distinctive, hollow tap. An image formed in Boromir's head upon the instant. He twitched his arrow's point down and to the left, aiming for the animal's heart, and let fly.

He reached instinctively to pull a second arrow from the quiver on his back, but he knew, even before he heard the first arrow strike the tree, that he had missed. The fading patter of the deer's feet as it bolted into the underbrush told him that the creature was gone, along with his hopes of a venison supper. Boromir rose to his feet, still holding the unused arrow in one hand and clutching his bow angrily in the other. A stirring in the trees to his right announced Legolas' coming. Boromir cursed under his breath.

"You missed him by no more than a finger's breadth!" the Elf called. "An excellent shot!"

Boromir only grunted at this.

"Nay, I am in earnest," Legolas insisted. "You were betrayed by some treacherous breath of air that carried your scent, that is all. It was naught but ill luck."

"And in consequence, I slew a tree instead of our supper."

Legolas chuckled. "'Tis no matter. The larder at Henneth Annûn is full enough to feed even such a one as you, my friend."

"I am glad to afford you so much amusement," Boromir said, sourly. He wiped the sweat from his face on his sleeve and flexed his stiff fingers, still feeling the cut of the bowstring in his flesh.

"Do not take it so hard. That shot would have done any Ranger proud."

Boromir grunted again and thrust the arrow back into the quiver with an impatient gesture. 

"What now, Master Bowman?" Legolas asked, lightly. "Do we resume the hunt? The buck will not run far, and he has left a clear trail."

Boromir frowned at the trees that had swallowed his prey, then shook his head. "Let the beast live to taunt me another day. I had rather find a cool spot to sit, where we can escape these flies."

Legolas hesitated, and Boromir fancied he could feel the Elf's sharp eyes on him, but when he spoke, he sounded as cheerful as always. "As you wish. 'Tis as well we have no kill to butcher on such a hot day." 

They found a place to rest and refresh themselves on the bank of a small woodland stream. Boromir lay stretched upon the ground, his head propped on a thick clump of moss. An evergreen spread its branches above him, shading his face from the heat of the sun and filling the air with its heady scent, while beside him, the stream played sleepy music to lull his senses. All was peace and contentment. Even the flies had abandoned him for some other, more interesting object. 

Boromir was beginning to truly relax, to let his thoughts drift with the soft gurgling of the water and let go of his restless discontent, when Legolas' voice called him back to the present.

"What ails you today, Boromir?"

He turned his bandaged gaze on the Elf in some surprise and replied, "Naught. I am well."

"Why then did you abandon the hunt? Never have I known you to give up your quarry so easily."

Boromir settled his head back on its mossy pillow and brushed away Legolas' concern with a casual wave of his hand. "I grow soft and lazy with too many hours spent in councils. 'Tis a wonder I can still wield a sword or draw a bow unaided."

Legolas said nothing, his silence a reproach, and Boromir sighed inwardly. He did not mean to hurt his friend or to hold him at a distance, but Boromir found it hard to confide in the Elf. Strong as their friendship had grown in the past few years, and most especially in the months of Aragorn's absence, there were still many things that Boromir could not share with him. He needed Aragorn. He needed the man he trusted above all others, who could open his heart with a word and read his soul at a glance. 

He missed Aragorn – his voice, his laughter, his firm hand, his ruthless insistence on the truth and his perfect understanding of all that passed through Boromir's mind. He missed him so dreadfully that, at times, it was a physical ache within him. Boromir did not fear that he might fail as ruler in the King's absence. He did not doubt his own ability or the decisions he had made. His need of Aragorn had nothing to do with the governing of the realm. He simply missed him, as he might miss a part of himself that was taken too abruptly from him. 

"This is the longest year I have ever endured," he murmured.

Legolas recognized the tacit apology in his words and answered, with his usual ease, "The autumn passes swiftly. Aragorn will soon return."

"Not soon enough to suit me."

Trying another approach, Legolas said, "Beregond tells me that Prince Imrahil is come sooner than expected and bearing news from the South."

Boromir grunted sourly and sat up, reaching for the wine flask he had propped against the nearest tree root. "Aye." He pried the stopper from the flask, drank deeply from it, and held it out to his companion. "He arrived two days ago."

"Is it Imrahil who puts you so out of temper, or the progress of the war?" Legolas asked, as he took the flask.

"What war?" Boromir made no attempt to keep the bitterness from his voice. "There is no war, only waiting and more waiting… much like hunting deer."

"Ah. Now I begin to understand."

"I grow weary of the hunt. I chafe at this inaction. If I could but draw my quarry out, lure it to take a single unwary step, I would put an arrow through its throat and be done with war and waiting at one blow!"

"But the Haradrim will not take that step. They do not attack."

Boromir gave a short, harsh laugh. "Nay, they do not wish to die!" Then he added, more soberly, "They _cannot_ attack, with Ciryon's troops among them and the combined forces of Lebennin, Lossarnach and Belfalas barring their passage across the River. Yet they do not withdraw. Beregond keeps watch on the Harad Road, and he reports more men and arms moving west across it all the time, not east, back to their own lands."

"They are amassing a greater force, then, before they move against Ciryon."

"Aye, but slowly. And they make no attempt to bring their army together, to build protected camps, or to prepare for open war. They simply bide their time."

"It makes no sense."

"It does, if they are waiting for something in particular."

"What would that be?"

Boromir fixed his gaze on Legolas, an ironic smile tugging at his lips. "We cannot be certain until it happens, but you and I both have our suspicions, do we not?"

Legolas did not answer for a long moment, and Boromir felt a certain grim satisfaction at having confounded him so thoroughly. Finally, the Elf said, "You are thinking of the broken saddle girths."

"Aye, and the runaway cart that nearly threw me from the bridge at Osgiliath. And the farmer who approached me on the road with a sword beneath his cloak."

"You did not tell me of that!"

"He struck no blow and gave a plausible excuse for going about so armed. There was naught to be gained from spreading the tale. But when all these events are taken together, the message is clear enough."

Legolas' voice hardened with anger. "They mean to kill you, Boromir."

"Aye, but they will fail."

"How many more attempts will they make, before they catch you napping?"

"The Steward of Gondor does not nap – unless he has a trusted friend with a sharp blade at his side and stout mail hidden beneath his tunic."

"Yet you wear none today! Why do you risk yourself in such a way?"

Boromir chuckled. "I am not so careless of my skin. 'Tis true that I cannot go clanking and jingling about in chain mail, when tracking forest creatures, but my chief armorer devised a mailed jerkin of sorts that fits beneath my hunting leathers. It is sewn with small plates that do not move or rub together, and so do not betray me. Unfortunately, it is very hot." He shrugged his shoulders, hitching the concealed armor more comfortably into place, then added, with a smile, "The worst an assassin might do is hack off an arm or a leg, not touch any vital spot."

"You make light of it, but 'tis no matter for jests."

"I have survived far worse than the Haradrim can do. Think you I fear them?"

"Nay. I think you relish the danger, and that troubles me."

In answer to the Elf's obvious concern, he dropped his bantering tone and said, wearily, "I am bored, Legolas. Bored with wars that do not come, councils that never end, nobles who flock about me like bejeweled crows and croak their demands in my ears. I want something to _do_. If the Haradrim would fight, or Taleris would put a foot wrong, I would have intrigues and battles enough to pass the time. As it is, I have naught but the occasional attempt on my life to break the tedium."

Legolas fell silent, and Boromir could feel his keen, troubled eyes on him. At last he ventured, "If you will take counsel from a mere Elf, I may have a way to bring this crisis to a head."

"I would take counsel from a barrow-wight, if it would end this infernal waiting."

"That is well. Come with me to Rohan, Boromir."

"To Rohan?" This suggestion took Boromir completely off guard, and he turned a blank face on the Elf. "To what purpose?"

"I have promised Gimli to pay him a visit at Aglarond, and I mean to spend some days in Edoras as well. Join me, I pray you. Both Gimli and Éomer King would welcome you gladly, and the freedom to ride Rohan's plains, unfettered by kingly duties or assassins, would do you good."

"I cannot leave Gondor."

"Has not Aragorn enjoined you to meet him at Meduseld?"

"He has, but…"

"And has Imrahil not arrived in Minas Tirith?"

"Aye."

"Then all is in place."

The note of excitement in the Elf's voice spurred Boromir's curiosity and warned him of deeper schemes afoot. "This is not about a holiday in Rohan, is it, Master Elf?" 

"'Tis time to draw out Lord Taleris, tempt him to show his true loyalties."

"Do you think I have not tried?"

"Ah, but you are not the man to do it, my lord Steward. So long as you remain in Minas Tirith, Taleris will do nothing to expose himself. He fears you too greatly, and the place you hold in the King's heart. But were you gone, and the realm left in the care of his old and trusted friend…"

"Imrahil," Boromir growled.

"Taleris will feel himself safe."

"Mayhap, but he is too subtle a conspirator to betray himself so carelessly."

"Then set Imrahil to woo him. Let him play upon Taleris' hatred of you and his belief that Imrahil still opposes your Stewardship. Give him an opening to declare himself."

"And if my absence is the signal for war in the South?"

"Then you return at once to take up your Stewardship, and Imrahil goes south to command the armies. But even should aught delay your return, you have provided so well for the defense of Ciryon's borders and placed all your vassal lords in such readiness that the war could go forward without your presence in Minas Tirith. Imrahil, Ciryon and Beregond might, between them, meet any threat from Harad." 

Boromir pondered this for a moment, feeling a cold knot form in his innards at the thought of riding away from the city gates, leaving Imrahil and Taleris behind him. It felt too much like turning his back on an armed foe. "All this supposes that I may trust Imrahil."

Surprise sounded plainly in Legolas' voice. "Can you not?"

"My heart would have it so, but my reason urges me to caution," he answered, heavily. "I have not forgotten how he stood up against me before the Council."

"And later swore fealty to you – an oath that he has kept in all good faith."

"He calls Taleris friend."

"Would he, if he knew of your suspicions?"

"Would he _believe_ my suspicions?"

"You have not told him of the letters, then."

"I have not."

The Elf stirred uncomfortably. "You are making a mistake, Boromir."

"Am I?" Boromir fixed his bandaged gaze firmly on Legolas, letting a hint of the steel in him show. He valued Legolas as both a friend and an advisor, but he did not relish the note of censure in his voice or the manner in which he questioned the decisions of Gondor's Steward.

"Think you that Taleris will hold himself aloof from his old friend?" Legolas demanded. "Or will he go to Prince Imrahil at once and fill his ears with tales of your unfounded, irrational hatred? How will your orders that Taleris be permitted to touch no document or letter sound, coming from the lips of that embittered lord?"

"Let him tell his tales. Only a great fool would believe him, or one who has already set his mind against me."

"Take Imrahil into your confidence. Then he will be armed against Taleris' poisoned words."

Pride stiffened Boromir's spine and hardened his voice. "I'll not beg my uncle for his allegiance. Either he holds faith with his Steward or he does not."

Legolas flung down the wine flask in a gesture of frustration and cried, "A plague take you, Boromir, but you are a stubborn man!"

"And you are meddling in affairs not your own!"

Legolas' indrawn breath hissed angrily in Boromir's ears, and he braced himself for another tongue-lashing, but the Elf fell suddenly still. After a long moment, in which Legolas remained utterly silent and Boromir glowered in his general direction, he finally said, a trifle stiffly, "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to overstep my bounds."

Boromir shook his head and waved away Legolas' apology with a brusque gesture. Climbing to his feet, he said, roughly, "Let us find the horses. I am done with hunting for today."

Legolas obediently rose to his feet and busied himself collecting their gear. He said nothing, and Boromir felt the tension lying thick between them, but he did not know the words to banish it. He accepted the bow and quiver that Legolas handed him, slung them over his shoulders, and clasped the Elf's offered arm without comment. They set off into the trees together, following the stream down toward Anduin, where Borlas and their horses waited.

As he walked, Boromir reflected on his conversation with Legolas. It had ended badly, for which he was sorry, but much had been said that was of great use to him. Had the words come from a more familiar source, or had the Elf known when to cease his prodding and let a man think, Boromir might have taken his counsel more readily. But for all his long-eyed wisdom, Legolas had little skill in handling the affairs of Men. And it was at times like this, when another, less welcome guide attempted to take the king's place at his side, that Boromir missed Aragorn most acutely.

As if reading his thoughts, Legolas murmured, sadly, "I cannot advise you as Aragorn would, Boromir, and I am sorry for it."

"Do not be." Boromir fought a brief, fierce struggle with himself, then let go of his reserve and added, in a gruff voice, "I beg your pardon for my show of temper. It is not against you or your widsom that I chafe."

"I know it." 

They walked in a companionable silence for some minutes, then Legolas said, "You know Aragorn better than any Man and do not need another to tell you what counsel he would give."

A harsh, painful laugh was wrenched out of Boromir at this. "He would tell me to trust in my own judgment and do what I must to safeguard his kingdom."

"What does your judgment tell you of Imrahil?"

The Steward did not answer at once. He let himself indulge in a moment of melancholy, as he listened to Aragorn's voice whispering in his ears and tried to draw comfort from his imagined presence. Then, at last, he said, "That Imrahil will honor his oath to Gondor's King and Gondor's Steward, whatever his true opinion of me."

"So say I."

"Yet I am loath to turn my back on that viper, Taleris, with no surer champion to cover my retreat."

"You will do as you see fit. You know my mind."

"Aye."

They fell quiet once more, but the Elf spoke again before Boromir's thoughts could wander far afield. "Where is the King's company now, think you?"

"The Shire." A pang of longing went through him as he added, "With Merry."

"All our friends are well?"

"Aye."

Legolas' light, musical voice went oddly wistful with his next words. "'Tis a rare gift, that kind of knowing. Few can boast of it, even among the Eldar."

Boromir started and almost let go of his guide's arm. "What mean you?"

"Nay, Boromir, do not bristle at me," the Elf chided, laughing softly. "You did not gain your certainty from any letter, and we both know it."

"You speak in Elvish riddles."

"Very well, I speak in riddles." He laughed again, more brightly, and added, "Yet you will forgive me if I come to you for news of Aragorn, now and then."

Boromir shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could pull away from Legolas without losing himself in the unfamiliar vastness of the forest. "I can give you naught in the way of news. I can only tell you that all is well with him."

"That is enough."

Legolas pressed him no further, for which he was grateful. Though he knew that Legolas would readily understand the closeness he felt to Aragorn, he could not bring himself to discuss it with him. He had not discussed it even with Aragorn, whom he was sure felt it as keenly as he did. It was an essential part of himself, a presence and a warmth that he carried with him always and had come to rely on, no matter how great the distance that lay between them. A piece of Aragorn that never left him. And it belonged only to him – not to Legolas or Gil or any of the myriad creatures who surrounded and served him. To speak openly of it was to betray his friendship with Aragorn in a way he could not contemplate.

He did not speak again until they reached the banks of Anduin and struck off west, toward the glade where they had left their mounts in Borlas' care. The air was cooler here and full of the rushing music of the River. The grass was soft under foot, and the scent of dry autumn leaves mingled with the more lively smell of wet earth, mossy stones and the peculiar tang of the water itself. 

Boromir felt his spirits lift. He was always more cheerful when in hearing distance of Anduin, for it marked the borders of his lands, and it spoke to him of home. His steps grew swifter and lighter, his back straightened beneath the weight of the mail he wore, and his head lifted. He smiled to himself when he thought of Legolas' larder and the meal they would share in the gracious hall of Henneth Annûn.

Boromir could not enter that familiar place and hear his footsteps echo against the carved stone of the walls without wishing that he could see it once more. He remembered the chamber of Henneth Annûn as a cold and roughhewn place, fit only for a soldiers' camp, with the light of the Window and its waterfall the only beauty it owned. Since his coming to Ithilien, Legolas had much enlarged and altered it, enlisting Gimli's skill in shaping the rooms, turning it from a cheerless refuge to a simple but noble dwelling, fit for an elven lord to call home. 

Boromir could feel the changes in it, but he could not draw for himself a picture of how an Elf might fashion a stone chamber to his liking. In his mind, the Elves of the forests lived in trees, as he had seen in Lothlórien. Gimli assured him that Legolas' people lived in a vast cave in Greenwood, and the Dwarf had tried to describe it as his father had seen it many years before, but as Glóin had known only the dungeons of Thranduil's palace, he was not able to paint much of a picture for Boromir. It was one of the small annoyances of his life that Boromir could not see Legolas' home, except with his fingertips. 

"I hope you did not overstate the size of your larder, Master Elf," he commented to Legolas, as they clambered over a fall of boulders that spilled from the hillside above into the water. "I am beginning to regret that deer."

"Fear not, my lord Steward. The Elves of Ithilien do not let their guests starve!"

"Then let us make haste. We have an hour's ride yet ahead of us, and I am hungry enough to eat fish raw from the River."

"Ah, the veteran soldier grows soft indeed. Well do I remember our journey through the wilds of Eriador, and how the doughty Boromir walked all the day on a mouthful of bread and a sip of water…"

"Only because the halflings ate my share of the rations," Boromir growled.

"Only because you gave it to them."

"Impudent little beggars, the lot of them. I do not recall that you denied Pippin a share of your meal very often."

"Elves need less food than Men, for we carry less weight and waste less energy in talking."

Boromir laughed aloud at this and urged, "On, on, my light-footed friend! I will talk no more!"

"There is no need for such desperate measures," Legolas assured him. The Elf threaded a path between tall, musty-scented ferns, jumped down from an earthy bank, and stepped into the warmth of an open glade. "Here are our mounts, and there is food enough in your pack to sustain you!"

"If my page has not eaten it all. Where is the boy?"

Legolas guided him the half dozen steps to where Fedranth stood, cropping grass in an unhurried way, in the shade of a massive tree. Arod grazed beside him, and as Boromir stepped up close to his faithful mount, the other horse nuzzled his neck, blowing hot, moist air on it. Fedranth greeted him with a soft whicker and returned to his meal.

"Where is the boy?" Boromir asked again.

Legolas, having brought him to his horse, now left him in search of Borlas. "I should think he has found himself a shady hollow and fallen asleep."

"Ho! Borlas!" Boromir bellowed, sending a flock of birds flapping and screeching out of the tree above him.

Legolas chuckled. "You could call the dead from the marshes with that racket."

"So long as my page comes with them. _Borlas!_"

"My lord!" The call came from the dense trees to the north of the glade, where the ground rose steeply, and was followed by the slither of feet in loose pine needles as the boy half ran and half slid down the hill. "My l…"

Even as Borlas' cry was abruptly cut off, Fedranth tossed up his head and snorted in alarm. Boromir instinctively stepped away from the horses, reaching for the dagger at his belt, before a conscious awareness of trouble had touched him. A familiar whine met his ears, and an arrow struck him full in the chest, bouncing harmlessly from the mail beneath his hunting leathers.

"'Ware the trees!" Legolas called, even as a second and third arrow flew at Boromir, and he whipped his bow from his shoulder.

Boromir snatched his dagger free, silently cursing himself for leaving his sword in Borlas' care. He had only the short blade in his hand and the bow on his back, and he was not expert enough in the use of the bow to rely on it for defense. Heedless of the arrows flying at him, he spun around, sweeping the glade with his weapon, straining to locate the archers by sound and the direction of the shots.

Another arrow, this one from lower and to his left, struck Boromir in the back and stuck fast in his clothing. He ignored it, turning to face this new threat, while a cry and a crash in the direction of the first shots told him that Legolas' arrows had found their mark. He heard another arrow cut the air, and pain lanced through his arm.

"You are hit!" Legolas cried.

"A scratch! Find the boy!"

The Elf hesitated for a heartbeat, then obediently leapt up the bank and into the trees. No sooner had Legolas vanished than the lurking bowman to his left came forward to press the attack. Boromir was waiting for him, expecting him to abandon his bow and finish the job with a blade, now that he had his quarry alone and, to all appearances, defenseless.

The man came swiftly and quietly, but not so quietly that Boromir did not hear him. He held his ground, letting the assassin believe that his surprise was complete, until the man was within arm's reach, then he spun on his heel and knocked aside the blow aimed at his exposed neck. The assassin fell back and dropped into a fighting stance, breathing hard enough to betray his surprise. Boromir matched him effortlessly, a grin of satisfaction on his face.

He had no fear. The cool, precise, utterly controlled mood of battle was upon him, and he calmly sorted through the sounds and sensations that reached him, marking them like so many of Aragorn's lists and filing them away, even as he faced his assassin and prepared to dispatch him. The man knew of his hidden mail, so he could strike in only three places – the neck, the armpit, or the groin – hoping to slip in under his mail shirt and deliver a mortal wound. He had already tried for the neck and failed, so he would choose another spot for his next strike. Boromir knew it as surely as he knew that he could kill this man when and how he chose.

A shift of the man's feet and a catch in his breath warned of his lunge. Boromir parried the blow as it came. His forearm struck the other man's arm aside, and the point of his sword skidded harmlessly across the mail beneath Boromir's tunic. Once again, the man fell back, cursing, and Boromir followed.

Bringing his dagger up in a short, vicious arc, he felt the blade bite into flesh. The other man cried out in fury and wrenched away. With another curse, the man dropped his weapon and fled toward the riverbank. Boromir took two strides after him, listening intently. He heard running feet, then a splash. Still in his cool, detached state, Boromir dropped his own dagger at his feet and slipped the bow from his shoulder. He nocked an arrow with smooth precision, drew back the string, and, after a second's hesitation, let fly. 

There was a cry, then a flurry of splashing as the man flailed about in the water, and then silence. Boromir lowered the bow. It had all taken less than a minute.

"He is dead," Legolas said.

Boromir turned to face him, having not heard him approach in the excitement, and smiled grimly. "Aye."

"As are the other two. The page has suffered naught but a blow to the head, but you are wounded."

His left arm burned where the arrow had cut him, but Boromir had forgotten it until that moment. He fingered the bloody rent in his sleeve. "Clearly, they were not Elves."

"No Elf would have missed that shot. No Ranger, either," Legolas agreed, but there was no amusement in his voice.

"They are not of Ithilien?"

"Nay. Haradrim, I should guess, though they wear Rangers' garments. Black-eyed, swarthy, and much slighter of build than the Men of Gondor." Boromir heard him flip the fallen weapon over with his toe. "This blade is of southern make."

"It seems I am blessed with assassins who ever choose the wrong weapon," Boromir said, lightly. "Bowmen who attack with swords, swordsmen who try the bow… Mayhap they will send a Dwarf to sail down Anduin after me." 

Legolas did not respond to his attempt at humor. "This was a desperate venture. Three unskilled woodsmen against the pair of us."

"They had no thought of returning, I deem. If they could draw you off long enough for one of them to stick a sword in me, they would die honorably, their duty done." Boromir turned to scan the glade with his bandaged gaze. "Where is the boy?"

"Here, my lord," came a sheepish voice from the bank above.

"Have you my sword, Borlas?"

"I have. The blackguard who grabbed me would have stolen it, but Master Legolas spitted him on the end of a knife, and he lies yonder, dead." His voice glowed with admiration for Legolas' prowess and brought a smile to Boromir's face. 

"Since Master Legolas has come so magnificently to your rescue, you may help him fetch the bodies down here."

"Nay," Legolas protested, "let the boy stay with you. He has a sore head, and I can carry the dead without his help."

A few minutes later, as Legolas and Boromir worked to bind a dead assassin across the rump of each horse, Legolas asked, "Where will you take this unsightly baggage, my lord Steward?"

"Cair Andros, and on to Minas Tirith at first light. I have a notion that our friends, here, will serve our turn admirably."

"Which turn would that be?"

"The one that leads to Rohan." At Legolas' startled silence, Boromir smiled widely. "This latest and most open attempt at murder gives me a plausible excuse for leaving the city two months early."

"Fleeing assassins?" Legolas sounded incredulous. "None who know you will credit it."

"Taleris will. He holds me enough in contempt to believe that I would flee Gondor to escape my assassins. And if these same assassins follow me into Rohan…"

"Then you will know that Taleris sets them on."

"Aye. Only Imrahil, Taleris and Gil will know of my going for some days. We will leave at night, by the stone bridge that leads into the White Mountains and the forests of Anórien, the two of us alone. And Borlas, if he will consent to join me."

"I should be honored, my lord!" Borlas exclaimed, wonder and excitement mingled in his voice. Then he added more eagerly still, "I should not let you go without me!"

"There may well be more blackguards to contend with, Master Page, and I will have no sentry who falls asleep at his post."

"I will not!" Boromir could almost hear the boy's back stiffening proudly. "You may rely on me, my lord Steward!"

Boromir grunted a wordless acknowledgement, turning to thrust his sword into the sheath on his saddle while hiding a smile. Borlas reminded him strongly of Beregond, or how he imagined Beregond must have been as a child, and he felt a strong affection in himself for the boy. His earnest, overly serious mien, that poorly concealed a fierce pride and a lively spirit, made him seem both oddly mature and painfully young. And he had already, in the few months of service to his steward, shown a devotion to Boromir that could not help but win loyalty and liking in return.

At last, when they had their gear stowed properly and the dead men tied securely in place, they paused to wash the blood from their hands and bind up the cut on Boromir's arm. Then they mounted and turned their horses' heads eastward. With Legolas leading the way, they rode toward Cair Andros and the White City.

*** *** *** 

"Why did you say nothing of this before?" Imrahil took a hasty turn about the room, halting when his steps brought him near to Boromir's place in the window embrasure. "Through all the summer you have carried this doubt and said no word to me? Your kinsman and the commander of your armies?"

Boromir said nothing, only crossed his arms on his breast and frowned at the outraged Prince.

"'Tis not Taleris alone whom you doubt. I, too, am suspect. Is this not so?"

"Nay, Uncle."

"Yet you do not trust me."

"I have kept my own counsel. That is all."

Imrahil snorted in disgust and resumed his pacing. Boromir could hear his steps, swift and angry, prowling from rug to stone floor, from the bed that stood at one end of the chamber to the hearth that filled the other. A fire burned lustily on the hearth, filling the room with heat and the smell of smoke. As with all the bedchambers in the Tower – all save Boromir's – the walls were bare stone, fixed with torches in iron brackets, and candles stood on every flat surface. To Boromir, the atmosphere was unbearably close, hot and choking, and though he knew it made him appear aloof from his kinsman and the discussion at hand, he would not leave the embrasure. Here, at least, with the window open at his back, he could breathe clean air.

Imrahil was not taking his disclosures well, though Boromir had expected naught else from him. The Prince was wounded by his steward's reticence, unwilling to believe in his friend's betrayal and hesitant to credit what he termed baseless suspicions. But in all his protests, Boromir heard no note of deceit, no hint that he was privy to Taleris' treacheries. He was all honest amazement and distress.

"Why do you tell me this, now?" the Prince demanded.

"I need your help."

"Ah! My lord Steward finds he cannot hold all the reins of government alone, does he?"

Boromir smiled sourly at that. "Taleris has been complaining of me."

"He told me that you have taken the care of the southern fiefdoms from his hands."

"Can you blame me, with the South poised upon the brink of war? I am Steward, and in the King's absence, ruler of Gondor. Is it not my duty to lead my people at such a time? In my own person, not through a deputy whose loyalty is suspect?"

"Suspect by you, not by those whom he has served in all faith for longer than you have lived, my nephew."

"Ciryon would not agree with you."

Imrahil fell silent. His steps slowed and carried him toward the table by the fire, where Boromir heard him pour liquid from a flagon into two cups. Silver rang against wood, as he set down the pitcher. "Will you have wine?" He did not wait for Boromir's answer, but carried a goblet across the room to him, saying, "Ciryon finds himself in dire straits and will jump at shadows."

"Do you think him so skittish? Or so reckless as to accuse the first scapegoat that comes to hand?"

"He did not accuse Taleris in his letter." 

Boromir took the cup offered him but did not drink. "I have laid what proof we have before you, Uncle. You must make of it what you will."

Imrahil settled into the embrasure beside him, perching on the edge of the deep sill and propping a shoulder against the stone at his side. He seemed calmer to Boromir than before, his anger drained away and dour resignation in its place. "I could wish you had more proof."

"Had I more, Taleris would not be walking free about the city."

Once again, the Prince fell quiet. He sipped at his wine, his manner thoughtful, and in between swallows, he rubbed his thumb absently along the rim of his goblet. At last, he asked, "What is it you require of me?"

"Your services in drawing out Taleris."

Keen eyes fixed palpably on Boromir's face. "You would have me trick and betray an old friend?"

"I would have you unmask a traitor."

"How do you propose I do this?"

"Encourage his confidences. Play upon your old alliance and the petition you placed before Aragorn to strip me of my stewardship. Lead him to believe that you still oppose me and think me teetering on the brink of madness, driven to it by the war, Aragorn's long absence, and my sleeping but ever-present lust for power." Boromir hesitated, then added, more softly, "Use my father's name."

Imrahil started slightly. "Denethor!"

"Aye." Boromir did not press him further. He knew, from the note in Imrahil's voice, that he was remembering all the bitter, incautious words Taleris had spoken over the years about Boromir and his father, and testing them now against these fresh accusations.

After a long moment's thought, Imrahil ventured, "And will you, who kept me in the dark for all these months, trust me now to do your bidding in my own way? Unhampered by your scrutiny and direction?"

"I will trust you in more than this. I will place my city and my realm in your hands, Imrahil, at a time when one ill turn might spell ruin for Gondor and her Steward.

Again, the Prince started at his words. "What mean you?"

"I go with Legolas to Rohan, leaving you to govern in my place. The attack in Ithilien gives me cause to leave earlier than planned." Boromir grinned fiercely at his kinsman, hearing disbelief in his stunned silence. "I flee assassins, Uncle, escaping to lands where the King is my staunch ally and can be trusted to shield me."

Imrahil made a rude noise. "Errant nonsense!"

"Aye, but will Taleris believe it?"

A reluctant laugh was forced from the Prince, as he said, "He will, I deem. Strange as it seems, he both fears and despises you."

"'Tis Aragorn he fears."

"As well he might."

Boromir chuckled. "The King has a long arm, indeed, if he can punish my enemies from so far afield. But I think I will fight my own battle, this time… with the aid of my loyal kinsman."

Imrahil laughed with him for a moment, then sobered. "Boromir," he said, laying a hand on the Steward's arm, "I must ask you, for I must know the truth. Do you still hold me in doubt? Do you blame me for the stand I took at the time of Elessar's crowning?"

Boromir answered without hesitation, speaking words he had weighed carefully before coming to Imrahil's chamber. "I know you for a man of honor and a loyal vassal to the Crown of Gondor. I know you stood against me in the full belief that you did right. And I know that you have never, by word or deed, broken the oath you took that day. I would not leave you in possession of Gondor's Citadel, if I did not trust you in this."

"But for yourself, Nephew. In your heart. Do you yet hold me to blame?"

A sigh escaped Boromir, and he dropped his bandaged gaze to the cup he held, avoiding Imrahil's eyes. "For myself, I am not so swift to heal."

"I did only what I thought I must, in the aftermath of your father's madness and the fear that you would shortly follow him."

"I know it."

"And still you doubt me."

"You will allow me the right to some human feeling," he said, wryly. "You are my uncle, the beloved guide and teacher of my youth, the man who gave to me and to my brother some lingering taste of our mother's love when she was taken from us. You have known me since my birth. And yet you stood up before King and Council, degraded me, reviled me, and sought to strip my birthright from me in the name of Gondor's weal." He lifted his blind gaze to Imrahil's face and added, bluntly, "That is a hard thing to forgive."

"It is plain to me that you have not forgiven."

"I have, in large measure. But I will admit to some doubt and some bitterness still."

"You forgive your brother."

"He chose to uphold me and spoke no slander against me. And more to the point, when he made his judgment, he did not form it from whispers, lies or fears. He came to me, talked to me of all that had happened, and did his utmost to understand what was in my mind and heart. He let me have my say, Uncle, and did not condemn me out of hand."

"As I did," Imrahil said, heavily.

"You did what you deemed right at the time. My true concern is what you will do, now."

"My duty," the Prince answered, his manner suddenly stiff with pride.

"That is what I believe and why I entrust this task to you."

"I would have more of you, Boromir. I would have my kinsman's love again."

"As would I. Mayhap it will come, in time. Tell me something, Uncle. In your secret heart, do _you_ trust _me_?"

"Trust you to do what?"

"Withstand the darkness, the madness and the folly that you once feared would claim me."

"You have withstood it thus far. You have been everything that Gondor and her lords could want in a steward and have bourn your office with honor. You have been… your father's son."

"I thank you for that, Imrahil."

The Prince pushed himself to his feet and moved a little away from Boromir, some restlessness evident in his manner. "And I thank you for the trust you place in me, however reluctant." He took a turn about the room, then halted and asked, "When do you leave for Rohan?"

"Three days' time, when the moon is dark."

"Legolas guides you?"

"Aye. He needs no more than starlight to find our road, and he knows the woods of Anórien nearly as well as the Wild Men of the Druadan. We will be in Rohan before any but you and Taleris know of our leaving."

"'Tis a tortuous skein you weave, my lord Steward."

"It was not of my making. I seek only to unravel it, before I find it round my neck." He smiled suddenly. "And, I confess, I am eager to lessen the leagues between me and my king, even if he still tarries in the Shire, drinking the Halflings' ale and thinking naught of me!"

*** *** ***

Aragorn stretched his long legs out before him, his feet towards the fire, and put his pipe between his teeth. Beside him, Pippin blew smoke rings toward the ceiling, laughing aloud at his own prowess, while Sam murmured something about "Old Gandalf" and what he could do with a bit of smoke. Merry, alone among them, seemed melancholy, and Aragorn did not have to ask where his mind had drifted.

It was twilight, and the house at Crickhollow was full of light and warmth. Aragorn had crossed the Brandywine Bridge in his Ranger's gear, alone, and made his way to the little house to share a meal with his Hobbit friends, tired of the pomp and formality of the King's Progress, even if his palace were no more than a pavilion in a field at present. As he strode the lanes of Buckland, slipping unseen through the shadows, he had contemplated the fate of the Shire in the coming Age. 

It seemed to the King as if this lovely, sleepy land were poised on the brink of a precipice. One unwary step by a foot too large and heavy would tip it over the edge and bring it to ruin. The time of Men had come in Middle-earth. The time of the Elves had passed, and that of the Dwarves was fading. But for Hobbits, fate was undecided. That the Shire could not remain forever apart Aragorn knew, but he likewise knew that only in staying apart could it hope to endure.

As he had walked, and pondered, and listened to the somnolent gurgles of the Brandywine between its green banks, Aragorn had come to realize that he valued this place as deeply as he did the white towers of Minas Tirith or the mountain fastness of ancient Arnor. The Shire, and the beloved creatures who dwelt there in such supreme ignorance of Kings and armies, was his to save or to lose. He, King Elessar, who knew what it was to love hobbits, must find a way to keep this land apart.

Now, in the company of his old friends, he forgot about the burdens of kingship for a time and did not worry overmuch about preserving the Shire from the might of Men. He thought only of the joy he took in their cheerful talk and in the taste of Longbottom Leaf upon his tongue. 

"I do wish you had brought Faramir with you," Pippin was saying, "for he promised me an elvish tale to go with my pipe this evening."

"You shall have your tale another day," Aragorn assured him. "For tonight, I would have my hobbit friends all to myself."

"Tired of being King, are you, Strider?"

Aragorn chuckled at the impudent twinkle in Pippin's eye. "Perhaps. It is true enough that, so long as I go about with Princes and lords in my train, I cannot be simply Strider."

"Well, you are Strider here," Pippin said, smugly. "We will let no one bow or scrape to you in this house!"

"My thanks, Master Took." He lifted his tankard in a grave salute to Pippin, his eyes smiling.

"Still and all, I think we might have trusted Faramir not to show you too much deference!"

Aragorn laughed, and Merry smiled fondly at his boisterous cousin. Sam grunted and snapped, "Let Strider be. I'd as lief have a night with no lords and ladies about, myself."

"You are very quiet tonight, Sam," Aragorn said. "Is something amiss?"

Sam frowned into the fire, his eyes dark with remembered sorrow. "Nothing that can be mended. I was thinking of Mr. Frodo."

"The room does seem empty without him."

"It was just a year ago that he left," Merry said, softly. "Almost to the day."

The smile left Aragorn's eyes, and he murmured, "I would that I could have made the trip West in time to see him again. I will miss him. And Gandalf."

They all fell silent for a few minutes, each lost in his private thoughts of those members of their company who had left them. But inevitably, the younger hobbits' spirits rose again, and talk flowed once more between them. Aragorn let regret and sadness slip from him, holding on to the warmth of remembered friendship and not the sorrow of loss. In truth, he found it impossible to stay melancholy for long in such company.

The night thickened, and the stars came out in force. Merry and Pippin vanished into the kitchen and returned with a snack to sustain them that would have fed a small army – seedcakes and crusty bread, cheese, fruit, strong tea, with a bit of cold ham and sausage to fill in the corners. The hobbits set to with a will, giving every sign of not having eaten in weeks, though Aragorn had watched them pack away a fine supper only a few short hours ago.

In the middle of cutting into a seedcake, Merry paused and remarked, "I wonder if one of these could make it all the way to Edoras unspoiled."

"Or uneaten," Pippin added, sagely.

"You need not worry about our provisions, Master Brandybuck," Aragorn said with a chuckle. "We have food enough for the journey."

"I was thinking of Boromir. I want to send a little something back with you for him – something of the Shire. He has said, many times, that he would like to sample my seedcakes."

"I doubt such a gift would arrive in any condition to be of use. It is more than two months' journey to Rohan, even should we go by the straight road and make no side turnings."

"What shall I send to him, then? A cask of ale from the Green Dragon?"

"Send him a pouch full of Longbottom Leaf, if you want to make him think of the Shire," Pippin suggested, brightly.

Both Aragorn and Merry turned astonished looks on him.

"For Boromir?" Merry demanded. "He does not smoke!"

"No?" Pippin looked from one to the other, catching their firm, negative shakes of the head, and shrugged. "That is too bad. He is missing one of life's finer pleasures." As if to prove his point, the hobbit sent a stream of fragrant smoke toward the ceiling from between his lips.

The three halflings fell to discussing what gift would be fitting to send to the Steward. Merry chose food, Sam favored samplings from the garden, and Pippin tossed in random suggestions that found little favor with either of them. Aragorn listened in amusement, reflecting that he was pleased to see Merry so involved in the business. Deep as had been his hurt at finding no Boromir among the King's companions, it set Aragorn's heart at ease to hear Merry speak so lightly of his absent friend. 

Aragorn was chuckling at Pippin's latest foolishness, when all of a sudden, he felt a cold finger trail down his back. He glanced up and around the room, a frown drawing his brows together, but he saw nothing untoward. Sam gave him an odd look, then turned back to his food without comment. Aragorn fixed his eyes to the fire, still frowning, hunting for the source of his disquiet.

It did not come from the room, nor from the peaceful night that wrapped Buckland. The hobbits were all calm and cheerful, with no shadow upon them. Arwen, ensconced in the King's pavilion on the other side of the Brandywine Bridge, was untroubled, enjoying an evening of music with Faramir and some of her attendants. Whatever the source, it must be farther afield, or deeper within Aragorn himself, and the harder he strained to find it, the more restless and uneasy he became.

Merry's voice broke in on his thoughts, saying, "Never mind, Pip. We have some days yet to think of the perfect thing."

"Nay, Merry." The words were out of Aragorn's mouth before he was even aware of them. "We leave at daybreak."

The hobbits turned to stare at him, blinking in surprise.

"Tomorrow?" Merry asked.

"Tomorrow."

"You cannot leave so soon!" Pippin cried in protest. "What of my elvish story? And Merry's gift to Boromir?"

"I am sorry, Pippin, but it is time that I was headed home."

Sam eyed him narrowly. "You had no such notion when you came here tonight, I wager."

"Indeed, I had not." He smiled affectionately at the scowling hobbit and said, "But all this talk of Boromir and Rohan reminds me that I have duties elsewhere I have long neglected. And if the truth be known, my feet itch to be traveling again."

"As you go on horseback, I should think it's another part of you that is itching," Pippin said.

Aragorn laughed. "I shall miss you, Master Took, and all your impertinent wisdom."

"Then do not go."

The King sobered. "I must. Were I to await my heart's readiness, I would camp forever on the borders of the Shire, but it is not to be."

"Where do you go from here?" Merry asked.

"Rivendell. Faramir has an ambition to see Elvenhome, and Arwen misses her kinfolk."

"Will you take the Redhorn gate and go down into Lórien?"

Aragorn shook his head, sadly. "The Elves of Lórien are scattered – gone to the Havens or into Greenwood and Ithilien. The mallorns bloom no more, and I cannot bear to see the Golden Wood so diminished. Faramir must be content with Rivendell."

"From Rivendell?" Merry prompted.

"Home." Aragorn smiled again, but trouble lurked behind the warmth in his eyes. "Home to Gondor."

**_To be continued…_**


	5. Nightmares

**Author's Note: **Whee! I got a chapter done in less than a month! I hope you all enjoy it, and don't get too spoiled. g 

On the technical side, the explosions described in this chapter are caused by a kind of Middle-earth Molotov Cocktail. I believe such things fit quite nicely into canon, considering that we know Saruman had flammable substances (the "liquid fire" that poured out of holes in the ground to burn the Ents) and exploding devices (the one he used to blow up the wall of Helm's Deep). You'll learn more about where these particular explosives come from later on – I don't want to give anything away this early in the game – but for now, please believe that I _do_ have an explanation!

Thank you all for your reviews, comments and encouragement! Enjoy!

-- Chevy

*** *** ***

**Chapter 5: _Nightmares_**

Boromir lifted his head to test the air and smiled in satisfaction. He could detect no sign of human habitation – no smell of smoke from wood or peat fires, of tilled fields or middens, no lowing of cattle, no ring of axes against trees. There was only the clean, wild scent of the grasses and the soughing of wind in the evergreens high on the slopes of the Misty Mountains. They had left the last settlement behind them at daybreak yesterday and now rode northward through the wilds of Dunland, into lands untouched for many lives of Men.

This suited Boromir perfectly. He had no desire to bandy words with Dunlanders and no need of a roof over his head. He might call this a hunting expedition, but it was, in truth, a chance for Gondor's Steward to strike out on his own and indulge the restlessness in his heart for a brief time. And to take him a few leagues closer to Imladris, though he knew well he could not camp on the slopes of the Misty Mountains until the King came for him.

After a handful of days spent in Edoras and another week in Aglarond, Boromir had continued west rather than return to Éomer King's golden hall. The news from Gondor was reassuring. Imrahil wrote in noncommittal terms of his progress, while Gil wrote more bluntly that Taleris had tried no mischief as of yet but was courting the Prince's favor tirelessly. With the certainty that all was well at home – or as well as it could be, under the circumstances – Boromir felt no urgency to return either to Meduseld or to Minas Tirith, and he deemed Imrahil needed more time to allay Taleris suspicions. And so he took himself westward, with him Borlas and the five Riders whom Éomer had sent with him as escort.

"How many of them are there left, my lord?"

Borlas' voice broke in on Boromir's thoughts, pulling his attention to the boy riding before him in Fedranth's saddle. He did not need to ask what Borlas meant by 'them.' He had talked of only one thing since their crossing of the Isen and their meeting with the chief of the Ents.

"I know not," Boromir answered, a touch wearily. 

"He was very tall, wasn't he? Are all Ents so tall?"

"I have met none other and can tell you naught of them."

"His hair was very like leaves. And his eyes… they were deep as wells. I thought they might swallow me whole. I should have been afraid, were you not with me, my lord."

Boromir controlled the urge to smile and found some sensible words to murmur in response. In truth, he shared much of the boy's fascination with the Ents. He had never seen one, never met one when awake until Fangorn came down to greet his company at the ford, and he wished that he had leisure to sit and talk with this ancient, unfathomable creature who had once saved his life. It had cost him a pang to refuse Fangorn's gracious invitation to come as his guest to Isengard, but Boromir would go no closer to that cursed place than the ford, even knowing that the Ents had turned it from a hive of orcs and sorcery to a garden. 

From the moment that they had said their farewells to Fangorn on the banks of the Isen, Borlas had not ceased chattering about him.

"Tell me again how the Ents destroyed Isengard, lord, I pray you!"

"Nay. You know the story as well as I."

"How grand and terrible it must have been, with the waters pouring in… they are very strong creatures to stand against such a flood, do you not think? And with hands that crumble rock like bread… Ah, how I long to see such a battle!"

"You would not find it nearly so grand as you think, Master Magpie."

"I am not a bird!" Borlas protested. "I am a warrior! And I shall fight many battles, ere I am too old to lift a sword!"

"At present, you are naught but a source of noise."

He could almost feel the blood rise in Borlas' face. "I beg your pardon, my lord."

"There is no need. Only leave off your questions for a while."

Borlas fell silent for some few minutes, while they rode at a leisurely pace over thick grass that muffled the sound of hooves. Then he ventured, in a subdued voice that did little to hide his eagerness, "Will you take me with you, when you go to battle, lord?"

"I do not go to battle."

"But you will! War comes, and you will go south to lead the armies of Gondor! I would go with you, my lord Steward, and ride with you against the enemy, even if I am but a page and a… a chattering magpie."

"Prince Imrahil will lead the armies, or my brother, if he returns ere the war begins."

Borlas twisted around in the saddle to look at him and asked, curiously, "Do you not wish to fight anymore?"

Boromir did not answer at once. He thought about the boy's artless question, weighing the dictates of common sense against the promptings of his heart and the fire of greatness that had never fully died in him. His visions of greatness had changed. He no longer coveted the Crown of Eärnur as he once had. But while his mind knew that peace was a blessing, won by long years of labor and loss, his heart craved the rush and excitement and glory of battle, the thrill of victory like wine in his blood, the heady power of knowing that an army fought at his back, his to command.

Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, did indeed wish to fight again. But wisdom and much suffering had tempered the battle lust in him, and he knew that he could not be that kind of soldier again. The great War of the Ring was over, the Enemy defeated, the Shadow fled, and the brave captain who had known naught but warfare must now learn to cope with peace. And more vital still, this wiser, more sober, more judicious captain knew that he could not ask soldiers to go into battle at the behest of a blind man. They loved him enough to do it, but that only made his position the more precarious. If he led them to victory, they would celebrate him as a hero. If he led them to defeat, they would forgive him. But if he lost a single man through his own misjudgment or helplessness, Boromir would never forgive himself.

He had come far from the first weeks and months of darkness. He had proven himself an able ruler and statesman. He had proven his loyalty to King and people. He had lived down the calumnies heaped upon him by Men who deemed him too weak of mind and will to survive the horrors visited upon him. But he had not proven himself in the one way that would give him the assurance and, in his own mind, the right to lead me into battle. He had not faced defeat and overcome it with his own hands, his own might and ingenuity. 

He could sit in Aragorn's Tower room and write dispatches that set troops in motion. He could worm his way into the mind of a traitor and find ways to trip him up. He could frighten away an assassin and shoot him in the back as he fled. That did not mean that he could stand before an armed opponent, intent upon his death or dishonor, and beat it to its knees, shed its blood in the dust, take back his self-sufficiency and his strength at the sword's point. Until he did this, he was no true general. No true soldier.

Borlas, troubled by his silence, turned again to gaze up at him. "Did I say aught amiss, lord?"

"Nay." Boromir clasped his shoulder briefly, then took Fedranth's reins in both hands again. "I was merely thinking of how best to answer you."

"My brother says that, if I would learn to be a great warrior, I must serve under Prince Faramir, who is now Captain-General and first among the fighting men of Gondor."

"Your brother is right."

"_I_ say that Prince Faramir is Captain-General only because _you_ choose to allow him that honor, but that you are the greatest warrior Gondor has known since Isildur himself, who cut the Ring from Sauron's hand upon the slopes of Mount Doom!"

Boromir felt a warm surge of pride at those words, but he concealed it from the boy, deeming his hero worship too far advanced already and in need of dampening. "Where did you get such an idea?"

"I heard the King say it! And would not King Elessar, the heir of Isildur, know better than Bergil, son of Beregond, who is first among the Men of Gondor?"

"King Elessar is first. Never forget it, Borlas, and never presume to put another in his place."

Borlas hesitated, abashed, then said, "I will not."

"And do not discount your brother's wisdom. I was once the leader of Gondor's armies, just as I was once believed destined to rule all Gondor as my father did. My destiny proved otherwise. I am a soldier no more."

"I do not believe it," Borlas said, stoutly. "You may choose to lay down your sword, but that does not make you any less a soldier."

Boromir sighed inwardly. "You will learn, in time, that not all we do is a matter of choice."

Borlas could think of no pert answer to this, and he fell quiet, leaving Boromir at peace to think of all that they had both said. He was still lost in thought when Éothain, the leader of his escort, pulled his mount in close at Fedranth's side and hailed him.

"It grows late, my lord Steward. We must halt soon, if we would make camp ere sundown."

Boromir nodded, the gesture agreement and dismissal at once. He trusted the Rider to choose a suitable camp without his guidance, and when Éothain rode up to him once again to announce that he had found a comfortable hollow to shelter them, Boromir followed without comment. The company dismounted in the shade of some rather stunted, wind-twisted trees and eased the stiffness from their limbs. Then they fell to work, caring for the horses and preparing camp.

When Boromir settled at last beside the crackling fire, he could feel night upon the wind. Warm as this season had been, winter's chill came early to the wilds of Dunland, and the snows of the Misty Mountains made every night a time to wrap oneself in cloak and blanket, huddle close to the fire, and be grateful that you would be gone ere winter came in earnest. Boromir was glad of the merry flames and, in the open air, did not mind the smoke. He drew as close to the blaze as he safely might without catching his cloak on fire, and at his meal in contentment.

They stewed a brace of plump rabbits, snared by one of the Riders at last night's campsite, and ate the last of the bread bought at a village beside the great North-South Road, two days before. As always, the Men of Rohan talked easily among themselves, drawing Borlas out when they had nothing more to say for themselves and answering courteously whenever Boromir chose to speak to them. Boromir did not often thrust himself into the conversation. He preferred to listen and to enjoy their songs and stories, without his somewhat awesome presence to hamper them.

Before long, weariness took them, and they lay down to sleep. Boromir pulled his cloak tightly about himself and rested his head on the slick, warm leather of Fedranth's saddle. He murmured a goodnight to Borlas, then fell quiet, listening to the comforting hiss and crackle of the fire. He had time enough only to turn his mind to that warm and secret place where his awareness of Aragorn dwelt, to reassure himself that his king was well this night, before he slept.

*** *** ***

Merry settled back in his favorite, overstuffed chair and drew deeply on his pipe. It was a lovely autumn evening, of the sort that could only follow a particularly ripe and mellow day, and he had no need of a fire to warm his toes. But the dancing flames added a measure of coziness to the room and gave him ample light for reading, so he pulled his chair a little closer to the hearth before relaxing into it.

In this moment, Merry felt completely at ease and at peace with his life. He drew again on his pipe, then he sent a stream of smoke from his lips toward the open window, where a breeze caught it and wafted it up into the purpling sky. The Shire was the best place in all Middle-earth for a hobbit to be, he reflected, even a hobbit such as himself who might seem at a glance to have outgrown his quiet home. His lordly clothing, gleaming mail and songs of other lands aside, he was yet a hobbit at heart, and he could think of no greater delight than this little house in Crickhollow, the friendly light of the flames upon his hearth, and the taste of pipeweed on his tongue.

His hand went to his breast, where a thick square of parchment rested in his pocket, and he smiled around the stem of his pipe. That piece of parchment always sat close to his heart, as did the words written on it and the Man who had chosen them. Merry kept the letter with him and read it often - to remind himself that he had a friend who loved and missed him, but also that they had both made some measure of peace with the leagues that separated them. 

He had thought his heart would crack, when he saw the King's company drawn up on the Brandywine Bridge and realized that Boromir was not among them. He had thought he could not endure the weight of disappointment and loneliness, after weeks of happy anticipation. But when he read Boromir's letter and caught himself laughing through his tears, he realized that he was not struck down by this blow. Much as he loved Boromir of Gondor, he was still a hobbit with a hobbit's concerns. Life in the Shire, the progress of the seasons, the richness of the crops ripening upon the Marish, the mellowness of the ale at the Green Dragon. These things occupied his mind and would still, no matter where Boromir was or how many years had passed since Merry last had seen him.

Slipping two fingers into his pocket, Merry pulled out the letter and unfolded the stiff parchment. The words were penned in neat, elegant lines. Not Gil's familiar hand, but Legolas', with the same graceful power in the strokes that marked everything about the Elf.

_To Meriadoc, called "The Magnificent," Warrior of the Shire, greetings._

Merry chuckled to himself over this salutation. He had not told Boromir of his foolish title, but no doubt Pippin had let it slip in one of his letters to the Steward. It made him smile to think of Boromir and Legolas sitting together at the great table in the Tower room, bent over a sheet of parchment, laughing as they wrote. And as many times as Merry had read them, the smile still came.

The letter went on in Boromir's usual style.

_My dear Merry,_

_I tried to write this letter with my own hand, that I might speak to you as freely as when we sat together upon the walls of my city, but alas, it was not to be. In my efforts, I have ruined several sheets of fine parchment, three quills, and my best tunic. Had Legolas not come to my rescue, I would be at it still, spilling ink and cursing my clumsiness. _

_I fear I am in disgrace with you, Little One. I know not how to ask your pardon, nor to explain why I did not come with Aragorn. You will think me careless of your affection, but it is not so, Merry. I swear it. Could I take myself in an instant from Minas Tirith to Buckland, I would be with you even now, seated at your hearth, drinking your best wine and listening to your tales of valor among the Shire folk, and I would be content. _

Merry looked up at his small fire, snapping gaily upon the hearth, and he felt a lurch in his breast at the thought that he might have shared this evening with his beloved friend. 

_But to join you there I must first brave the paths of Eriador, and it is not yet time for that. Let Faramir take my place, that he might see the lands of which he has dreamed all his life. He will find joy in them, where I would find only weariness and sorrow. Some day I will come to you, Merry, when I can bear to journey so far from Gondor and visit again the places that live so clearly in my memory. Until that time, I am content to remain where I am needed most and I regret naught but the loss of your company._

_For your friends in the South, naught has changed since last I wrote to you.  Legolas remains in Ithilien to keep watch over me in this perilous time of peace. He denies it, but I am not fooled. I know well the scent of a bodyguard, and Aragorn cannot hide his thoughts from me, try as he might. Gil is well, or so I deem, for she does not tell me otherwise. Gimli labors still in the caves of Aglarond, and I doubt not that Legolas will tempt me thither ere the autumn passes. I have no love of caves, but mayhap, through the Dwarf's fond eyes, I will find some beauty in them. Or mayhap, I will think of the Shire as I walk through them and pay no mind to cold stone walls._

_I bid you farewell for a time, Little One, and I wish for you, Pippin and Sam all joy in this meeting of old friends. Think of me as you sit and talk of your travels together, but not with sadness or regret. I am there, though you cannot reach out to touch me, for the largest share of my heart dwells with you always, in the Shire, upon the banks of the __Brandywine__._

_I remain your friend and humble servant,_

_Boromir_

As always, when he reached the simple closing, Merry felt his throat tighten with emotion. Dear, gruff, reserved Boromir had clearly put great effort into this letter, and the carefully penned lines brought him so strongly to mind that Merry wondered that he could _not_ reach out and touch him in that moment. He wished that he could tell his friend that he understood, that he forgave him, and that he had even managed to greet Faramir with tolerable composure. But he knew, in his heart, that he did not need to tell Boromir any of this. Boromir knew, as surely as Merry knew that the Man of Gondor meant every affectionate, self-mocking, gravely sincere and regretful word he had written.

Folding the parchment, Merry slipped it into his pocket once more. His pipe had gone out while he mulled over the letter, but he did not bother to rekindle it. He was filled with a sweetish sort of melancholy that only seemed to heighten his pleasure in the evening, reminding him as it did of other times and places, when his snug fireside in Crickhollow had seemed as distant and dreamlike as the white walls of Minas Tirith did now. 

How he missed Boromir! And Gil, Legolas, Gimli, old Ioreth with her constant flow of talk, and even the great, grey warhorse of Rohan who had carried him away from the city gates for the last time. He missed the very cobbles in the streets and the sun-warmed stone of the walls. He missed the cool, white room in the Houses of Healing, where he had awakened to find Boromir asleep in a chair beside his bed and Gil standing in the doorway with a tray full of breakfast. He missed them all with a terrible ache of longing, and yet, for all of that, he would not leave the Shire. This was his home – this little house, with its cheery fire and overstuffed chair, with the Brandywine sliding by on one side and the Old Forest crowding up to the hedge on the other, with the lights of Brandy Hall twinkling on the hillside at dusk. He would not leave the Shire, even for Boromir.

Merry was still thinking of Boromir, of Minas Tirith and the Shire, when he drifted off to sleep in his chair by the fire.

*** *** ***

A horse snorted in the darkness, startling Boromir awake. He reached instinctively for the sword that lay at his side, his hand closing about the hilt, even as his ears strained to pick up any strange noise in the sleeping darkness. The horse snorted again and stamped its feet restlessly. Another of the beasts tied to the picket line answered the first. Boromir heard the nervousness in the animals, and he sat up, sword in hand.

Soft footsteps approached. "My lord?" 

Boromir recognized the voice of the man posted as sentry for the first watch. No more than a few hours could have passed since he had fallen asleep, if this man was still on duty. "What has disturbed the horses?" Boromir asked.

"I know not. Their ears and noses are sharper than mine."

Boromir listened again, intently, but heard only the movements of the tethered beasts and the wind in the night. 

"Could it be wolves?" the sentry whispered, the horses' nervousness infecting him. 

"They would have to be very hungry to approach so large a company." Even as he gave his reassurances, he remembered another journey through these lands, when the Wargs had attacked a company of nine armed creatures, including an Elvish archer and a Wizard. He wondered if the Wargs still prowled these hills, or if they had disappeared with the passing of the Shadow, and he reflected that he ought to have asked the Dunlanders they met what dangers might threaten them on a ride north.

"Brigands, then," the sentry said.

"That is more likely."

His words were drowned out by a scream of panic from one of the horses. All of the beasts began plunging madly, trying to tear free of the picket line. Boromir leapt to his feet, as all around him, Men stirred and groped for their weapons. 

It was not Boromir's ears that identified the danger – he could hear nothing over the chaos of confused men and terrified horses – but his nose. As he gripped his sword and dropped into a fighting stance he caught, clear and unmistakable, a familiar stench upon the wind.

"_Orcs!_" he bellowed. "On your feet! Form a circle by the fire!"

Before the Riders could obey him, there came a harsh call from the darkness beyond the hollow, then the tinkling of breaking glass. Heat and noise, the like of which Boromir had not known since Isengard, blossomed among the startled men. Flames seared Boromir's face, and he staggered backward, catching his heel on something and pitching to the ground. Another explosion came, and another. Men screamed in agony and terror. Boromir scrambled free of his own bedroll and saddle, fighting to regain his feet, but another blast almost beside him knocked him flat on his back. He felt a stab of pain in his thigh and a gush of warm blood down his leg.

Suddenly, the night was alive with the harsh voices, iron hands, cold blades and stinking breath of orcs. 

*** *** ***

The horror of the dream gripped him, made his shudder and cry out. He turned to find the body that lay beside him, reaching for comfort, and found naught but empty air and cool sheets. His eyes snapped open. The dream fled. Aragorn lay, breathing hard, his body bathed in sweat, stretched alone upon his bed.

His eyes slid from the dappled shadows of the bedchamber to the distant, moonlit valley beyond the arched windows. All was quiet in Imladris. All was as it should be. And yet, Aragorn's heart still raced and his lungs labored to draw air into his body, evidence of the terror that had invaded his dreams in this place where nightmares did not come.

_Bad dreams?_ he thought. _In Rivendell?_ Perhaps, with Elrond's passing, the power of the place was waning, no longer able to turn back the currents of the world outside. Or perhaps the thing that oppressed him came from within, not from without.

Disturbed yet more deeply by this thought, Aragorn rolled from the wide bed and padded, bare feet chill on the stone floor, through the nearest archway and onto the balcony. The caress of the night air was delicate upon his face, and it eased the tension in his limbs. He closed his eyes, savoring the feel of it.

Hurried footsteps sounded on the balcony to his left. He turned to see Arwen rushing toward him, her long, grey-blue gown flowing behind her. She wore a look of concern, and in her haste, she had lost some of her wonted poise.

At his glance, she called out, "My lord! Is aught amiss?"

"Nay, beloved." He opened his arms to welcome her, folding her close to his breast. "Where were you?"

"Walking with my brothers."

Aragorn nodded understanding. His Queen needed no sleep of the mortal kind, and while she often chose to spend her resting hours at his side, the lure of Rivendell's woods was more than she could resist. Most nights she stayed only until he slept, then she rose and went out to roam the valley, alone or with her kin. 

Arwen's eyes gleamed at him in the darkness, a frown drawing her brows together. "I heard your voice upon the air, calling out in pain." Her hands lay upon his breast, feeling the still-frantic pounding of his heart and the dampness of his shirt. "Some great trouble is upon you."

"I had a dream." At her look of surprise, he smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I cannot remember it, only feel still the clinging horror… We must leave, Arwen. At daybreak."

"For Gondor?"

"Aye, and by the shortest road."

She turned her face up to accept his urgent kiss and settled more tightly against him, lending him calm and strength with her closeness, but even Arwen could not drive the lurking dread from his heart.

"What is it you fear, Estel?" she whispered.

He gazed down into her face, his features masked with pain, and said nothing. To speak was to betray either Arwen or himself – to lie to his beloved wife, or to give voice and shape to his deepest fear and drive himself to despair. Only in silence could he protect them both.

Arwen understood and did not press him. She rested her head in the hollow of his shoulder, avoiding his direct gaze, and stood with him until the tension had drained from his body and he was once more in command of himself. At last, she spoke again, without meeting his eyes.

"By what road do we go?"

"We go south with the dawn."

"There is no road leading south. 'Tis all a trackless wilderness."

"You forget to whom you speak, my love. Am I not Strider the Ranger? Have I not walked every path of Middle-earth half a hundred times? Those years of wandering will serve me now, and I will find ways fit for our horses. The carts, and any of my company who do not relish a long ride through harsh country, may go back by the East Road to Bree and the Greenway. I will follow Bruinen south into Dunland and thence to the Gap of Rohan."

"I will ride with you, my lord."

He smiled again, this time with real warmth, and kissed her fleetingly. "I am certain that Faramir and Éowyn will choose to go with us. And the Dúnedain."

"Mayhap the Guard should ride with those who go by the longer road, as escort."

"Half the company, at the least. I will speak to Faramir about it."

"But not tonight. There are many hours yet 'til morning, and you are weary."

"I cannot sleep." His arms tightened about her again, and he ducked his head to bury his face in the silken, midnight mass of her hair. "There is evil in the night."

"Come, then, my love," she murmured, stepping out of his embrace and taking his hand. "Let us wake Faramir and make ready for the dawn."

"Arwen." He pulled back on her hand, halting her. "Arwen, I am sorry to take you from your home so soon. I promised you some weeks among your kinfolk and now…"

She put her fingers to his lips and shook her head. "Now is the peace of Imladris shattered, its beauty fled. 'Tis time to go."

Aragorn nodded, and together, they stepped through the archway into the bedchamber. In a matter of minutes, the Last Homely House was awake and bustling.

*** *** ***

Boromir lay beside the smoldering remains of the fire, his hands bound behind him, his ankles trussed together, and a heavy, musty, foul-smelling sack pulled over his head. Exactly why the orcs felt the need to cover his face Boromir could not fathom. Most likely, none of them had noticed that their captive was already blindfolded. Fortunately, one of them _had_ noticed his wound and had tied a rag around it to slow the bleeding. He was  nearly smothered by the sack, shaken by unwelcome flashes of memory, afire with pain, light-headed from loss of blood, and sick with fury at himself for allowing the orcs to spring their trap so easily. But even so, it could be worse. He could be dead. He did not allow himself to consider that he would rather be dead than in the hands of orcs again.

"How many horses?" a vaguely familiar voice growled.

"Four," another orc answered. Boromir could hear the horses in question snorting and neighing in alarm, their hooves pounding the stony earth as they reared and bucked against their tethers. "Two of the cursed things bolted before we could catch them."

"Good enough," the leader said. "Ghasha, you get this lot loaded up. Start with the dead one."

Ghasha spat into the fire, making the coals hiss, and retorted, "Why bother packing dead meat? I say, we eat it now. Our share of the booty!"

"You'll do as you're told, maggot, or the Chief'll hear about it!"

"Listen to Dúrbhak!" Ghasha taunted. "Thinks he can lord it over us, just because he caught a handful of horse-boys! Well, _I_ say, we've earned a bit of a snack!"

"Ho! That's what you say, is it?" 

There was a scrape of metal on metal, then a roar of fury from one of the orcs. Feet scuffled, breath rasped between clenched teeth, and something heavy fell to the ground. Boromir had to roll away from the fire when a shower of sparks went up from it. He could hear Ghasha cursing and howling, as he scrambled clear of the hot embers.

"Had enough?" Dúrbhak panted. "Or shall I give the lads a piece of _you_ to snack on?"

Ghasha snarled something that Boromir could not understand, distorted as it was by the cloth over his head, but it sounded like a threat to eat Dúrbhak's eyes on a bed of entrails. He hoped, briefly, that the orc would make good on his threat, thus eliminating at least one of their captors, but Dúrbhak seemed to have his troop of raiders well in hand for all their squabbling. He cursed, kicked Ghasha with a sound like a stone axe against a tree trunk, and resumed ordering the others about.

Boromir found himself stripped of outer clothing and mail, searched for weapons, and bound over the back of a horse. Another body was tossed up beside him – a slight, seemingly fragile body that could only belong to Borlas – and Boromir cursed himself steadily under his breath at the thought of what he had done to the boy. He should have left him in Edoras. Or better still, he should have turned back at the Fords of Isen, keeping to the lands of the Horse Lords, where orcs did not dare to tread. He was thrice a fool, and he deserved what foul tortures his captors had in store for him, but the Riders and the boy were innocent sufferers for his folly. Their blood would be forever on his hands.

Such thoughts kept him occupied while the orcs finished plundering and destroying the camp. Other, more terrifying thoughts crowded into his mind, turning his innards to water and his blood to ice, but he resolutely thrust them away. Still they came, howling and gibbering from their dark corners, while despair crept about his heart.

The Uruk-hai had taken him again. He had feared as much from the first moment he heard their speech. Now he was certain of it, for he knew the leader of the raiding party. Four years ago, on a night very much like this one, he had sat at the base of a burning tree, listening to Éomer's men being slaughtered all about him, and heard Uglúk call out a name. Dúrbhak. And on another such night, this same Dúrbhak had escaped with Uglúk from the drowning of Isengard, fleeing into the Misty Mountains, carrying an unknowing Boromir as hostage. Only luck and the bravery of a halfling had saved him.

Now Boromir was once more at the mercy of Dúrbhak, and the horror of it was enough to threaten his very reason. He fought against the black tide of memory, lashing himself with guilt for the fate of his companions rather than admitting how utterly, hideously familiar every detail of this night was to him. To surrender to his memories was to invite despair, and in despair lay madness.

"Move it, lads!" Dúrbhak called. "We've nothing to lug but our own carcasses, so no dawdling!"

With much grunting, stamping and shouting, the orc band set out. The horse to which Boromir was tied balked at being led by such a creature, tossing its head and shying away from the noise and the stench. The orc barked a threat in its own foul language, then jerked hard on the lead, forcing the animal to move forward. Its stiff, reluctant gait jarred Boromir's battered body, wrenching a gasp of pain from him that was mercifully muffled by the sack on his head. Furious with himself for such a show of weakness, he clenched his teeth, sank his fingernails into his palms, and willed himself to endure in silence. 

Up and up the troop of orcs, men and horses climbed, hour after hour. They halted neither for food nor rest, but trekked onward through the night, until the captives who could still walk were staggering with exhaustion and the horses were on the point of collapse. Boromir slipped into an uneasy doze, brought on as much by loss of blood as by weariness, where he wandered down dark, fevered paths of his own imagining. So it was that the Steward of Gondor passed, unknowing, out of the lands of Men and into the endless night beneath the Misty Mountains.

*** *** ***

Merry awakened with a start and jerked upright in his chair. Breathing hard, his face bathed in sweat in spite of the cold air flowing through the window, he stared through the tatters of his dream visions at the familiar surroundings of his library as if he had never seen it before. The fire had died, plunging the room into darkness. Strange shapes lurked at the edge of sight or crawled across the walls when he turned his head.

He got to his feet and crossed to the window. Outside, the sky was ablaze with stars, and the lights of Crickhollow gleamed softly through the trees. No trace of shadow lay upon Buckland; no evil voice flew upon the night wind. And yet, to Merry, it seemed as if the peaceful night were filled with shivering horror.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and willed himself to calm. He must not panic over something so foolish as a dream. He could not even remember what had frightened him so badly, though the fear still coursed up and down his spine, like the stroking of dead fingers. He was safe in the Shire, in his home, where nothing very terrible could reach him. And he would stay here… where he belonged…

Merry turned abruptly away from the window and strode to the hearth, where his tinderbox lay on the mantelpiece. In a moment, he had a lamp lit and had chased the eerie shadows to the farthest corners of the room. Then he moved purposefully about the room, pulling open drawers and throwing open chests, rifling their contents to find what he wanted. From the library he went to his bedchamber, and then to the kitchen. In each room, he collected a few necessary items, wrapped or folded them carefully, and stacked them in the entry hall, just inside the door.

Now dressed in his plainest traveling clothes, Merry returned to the library and knelt down before a large, brass-bound chest that stood against the wall. He unlocked it with a large key and swung up the lid. The lamplight struck dancing sparks from a gleaming metal corselet and a small helm studded with white gems. Folded neatly beside the mail shirt was a tunic of grass green, with the leaping horse of Rohan emblazoned on its breast, and white cloak of the finest wool.

These treasures Merry lifted from the chest and laid aside. Beneath them, he found what he sought – the three objects in all Middle-earth that Merry most valued and the ones without which he would not set foot across the borders of the Shire. First he brought forth his sword, a long, graceful dagger of Elvish make, given to him by King Elessar himself. Next came the silver-grey cloak of Lothlórien, with its brooch wrought in the shape of a mallorn leaf. And last came the most precious treasure of all, the silver-chased horn that was Boromir's parting gift to him. 

Merry lifted the horn from the chest and held it lovingly in both hands. He felt a moment's impulse to put it to his lips and blow, to fill the night with its music until Buck Hill trembled beneath it and the trees of the Old Forest lifted up their heads in surprise. The impulse came to him every time he touched the horn, but he had sounded it only once, during the Battle of Bywater, to rally the hobbits to the defense of their homeland. He could still remember its call and still feel the surge of gladness, pride and triumph within him when he heard it.

A melancholy smile tugging at his lips, he slung the baldrick over his shoulder and settled the horn at his side. Then he fixed the sword's scabbard to his belt and fastened the cloak about his neck. Laying the mail corselet and livery in the trunk again, he closed and locked it.

The sky had not yet begun to brighten in the east, when Merry locked the back door of his little house and slipped off through the spinney, a pair of heavily-laden saddlebags slung over his shoulder. In his Elvish cloak, he passed like a whisper of wind in the grass, unseen even by the owls that hunted the fringes of the Old Forest. He gave Buck Hill and the many windows of Brandy Hall a wide berth and struck west for Bucklebury. 

A hobbit of much foresight, Merry kept his pony stabled near the Bucklebury Ferry and the road that led to Stock. This was the way to Hobbiton and to Tuckborough, where Pippin now lived with his kinfolk. Merry's many travels usually took him across the river and down the road to Stock, and the lordly young hobbit on his long-legged pony was a familiar sight in these parts. 

This early in the morning, with the sun not yet up, Merry found the stables deserted but for a young hobbit sleeping curled in the straw of an empty stall. He did not disturb the child, but went about the business of saddling Strider as quietly as possible. By the time he led the pony outside, the first traces of dawn were beginning to show. Merry swung himself into the saddle, shifted his sword and packs into a more comfortable position, and nudged Strider with his heels. The pony obediently trotted off into the thin morning mist, toward the Ferry and Tuckborough.

**_To be continued…_**


	6. Far Under the Misty Mountains Cold

**Chapter 6: _Far Under the _****_Misty_********_Mountains_****_ Cold_**

The clutch of iron hands jolted him from his dark dream and back to a darker reality. He felt talons dig into his flesh, sending shards of pain through him, then he landed on stone with enough force to drive the breath from his body. All about him was horror and despair – the chill of stone, the stench of stale smoke, the foul reek and harsh voices of Orcs – a waking nightmare from which only death could free him, he feared. And yet, Boromir was not completely alone. For even as an Orc stamped on his shoulder, pressing him flat and crushing his face into the ground, he felt the tug of a light chain about his neck and the sting of sharp facets cutting into his breast.

They had not taken the star from him. Boromir could not fathom why the Orcs had left it hanging about his neck on its slender, silver chain, but he was comforted by the knowledge that this most precious of tokens was still with him: the Star of the Dúnedain, Aragorn's parting gift to him, and quite likely the last star that would ever shed its light upon Boromir of Gondor. Drawing strength from the fragment of light resting against his heart, and the memories of his king that clung to it, he banished dread and despair to concentrate on his surroundings.

All about him was noise and bustle – heavy feet tramping, objects shifting, harsh voices calling to one another – and through it all the crunch and grate of stone. Stone everywhere. It's cold touch against his skin sent a frisson of horror through him, and the sound of horned Orc feet against it filled him with churning sickness. But worse even than the breath of stone upon him was the familiar voice that echoed gleefully from the walls of the cavern to batter his ears. 

"Horseboys!" the voice bellowed. "Six of them, and all well-fleshed by the look of it! Well done, lads."

"This one's dead," another Orc growled.

"He's fresh enough, Chief," Dúrbhak said. "A bit gamy, is all."

The Chief laughed. "I like my Man-flesh a bit gamy." 

Boromir fought to swallow his rising gorge and to keep his mind clear. Some part of him had known who waited for him at the end of his road, and he could not now let shock or fear overwhelm him. The presence of one Orc, more or less, could not alter his fate, even this Orc. If escape were possible, Boromir would escape, bringing his men with him. If escape were not possible, what did it matter whether it was Uglúk who feasted upon his flesh or some other Orc? 

"Toss the meat over by the fire while we take care of this lot," Uglúk commanded. "How many horses?"

"Four."

"For six riders?"

"Two bolted."

"Bolted? _Bolted?_" Uglúk spat out a curse in his own language and kicked something hard enough to make it yelp. Boromir hoped it was Dúrbhak and not one of the bound Riders. "I ought to skin you for this, you brainless maggot!"

"But Chief, we got plenty," Dúrbhak protested. "It'll go off before we can eat it all!"

"You won't eat much when you're roasting on a Whiteskin's spear! Those beasts the horse-boys ride are cursed clever. They'll go straight back to their masters, and the next thing you know, we'll have the Whiteskins hunting us from Isengard to Moria! You didn't think of that when you snatched a whole troop of 'em, did you?"

Dúrbhak muttered something Boromir did not catch, and Uglúk spat into the fire, making the flames hiss. "Nothing to be done now," he growled. "Snaga! Leg it down to the south gate and tell the lads to keep an eye out for riders. They're to stay out of sight, keep to the high rocks, and be ready to shut the gate if the horse-boys stick their noses across the river. And mind you, there's to be no raiding without my orders. No fun and games with the Dunlanders!"

"Got it, Chief."

Uglúk turned his attention back to the prisoners, and Boromir could hear him stamping about just a few feet away. He paused in his inspection and grunted a few words in the Orc tongue. A body shifted, grating on loose gravel, and a soft whimper reached Boromir's ears. Boromir stiffened, digging his nails into his palms to control a surge of anger, as an Orc gave a guttural laugh.

"This one's too small to eat," Uglúk said, "and not much good as a slave."

Dúrbhak smacked his lips greedily. "It looks right tasty to me, Chief. A nice, tender little snack."

There was the sound of heavy fabric tearing, then another, louder whimper and more orcish laughter.

Uglúk chuckled. "Very nice. Very tender. I grabbed a little rat like you, once before, but he got away. I always wondered what he would have tasted like."

"I'm not a r-rat," Borlas gasped, his voice trembling with fear and determination. "I'm a s-soldier of Gondor, and I'm not afraid of you!"

"Gondor, is it? You're a long way from home, little rat."

"I go where my lord commands! I serve the St…"

Boromir gave a sudden, tremendous heave against the ropes that bound him. He did not succeed in freeing himself, but he managed to twist onto his side and grab Borlas' arm with his bound hands. The boy broke off in the middle of his impassioned speech and gave an audible gasp. Boromir felt him begin to pull his arm away, to turn in his direction, and he tightened his grip for a moment in warning. Borlas fell still.

Boots crunched stone hard by Boromir's head, then hot, foul breath struck him in the face from so close that Boromir could smell it even through the sack. He gagged and fought back the unwelcome flood of memory that came with the familiar stench of Orc.

"Well, well. What have we here, lads? Another soldier of Gondor? This one looks big enough to hold a sword, at any rate."

"He carried a blade big enough for an Orc," Dúrbhak said, his voice wary, "and something else. Something Elvish, by the smell of it."

Uglúk backed off a little, allowing Boromir to breathe without choking, and snapped his fingers at his lieutenant. "Let's have it."

"It's still on him."

"You left swag on a prisoner?"

"Brrr. I'll not touch it! Nor none of my lads! It's Elvish sorcery, I tell you. Stinks of it!"

"Fool! Where is it?"

"There. Around his neck."

A clawed hand grabbed Boromir's shoulder and forced him half onto his back, pinning his hands beneath him. Then the claws raked at the neck of his shirt, parting the fabric easily. He forced himself to breathe slowly, through clenched teeth, to control his revulsion at the Orc's touch upon his bare skin. Uglúk's hands were surprisingly deft, as they hooked the chain over one talon and lifted the gem from his clothing.

The Orc chieftain uttered a low hiss of disgust and jerked his hand away. The star fell to rest on the linen of Boromir's shirt. 

Boromir heard a slurping noise that sounded very much as if Uglúk were sucking on his fingers. Then the Orc recovered his composure, spat noisily onto the stone by Boromir's head, and growled, "What's a Whiteskin doing with Elvish trinkets around his neck?"

Uglúk's hand pawed at the chain again but suddenly halted its movement. The reeking breath drew closer as the Orc bent over his prisoner, then the enormous hand grabbed a fistful of Boromir's shirt and tore it away from his left shoulder. 

There came another hiss, and fingers slid over Boromir's skin, skimming his shoulder to touch the puckered scar left by an Orc arrow. After a charged moment, Uglúk ripped his shirt farther to expose the second scar low on his side, and again, those cruel, oddly gentle fingers brushed the ugly mark.

"I know these wounds."

The fabric tore suddenly away from Boromir's face. He sucked in a grateful breath but instantly began to cough and retch as the midden reek of the Orc den caught at the back of his throat. He was still struggling to control the heaving of his stomach and the spasms in his throat, when Uglúk's hand fastened on his neck, forcing his head up and to one side. The Orc's stinking breath burned his face, making him choke afresh, and a voice so filled with hatred that it almost blistered his skin poured over him.

"I know this soldier."

Boromir could not speak for the tightness in his throat and the hand clamped beneath his jaw. He could only clench his teeth and wait for the killing blow he knew was coming. If he were lucky, Uglúk would break his neck with one squeeze. If not, he would likely be disemboweled on a dull sword and left to die in bloody agony. Either way, he was Orc food.

Once again, he felt Uglúk's claws on his flesh, sliding up his cheek to catch at the lower edge of the cloth covering his eyes. With a single tug, Uglúk tore away the bandage. Boromir felt air moving against his eyelids.

"Isn't that just lovely?" The sneering voice was at once a caress and a curse. "My little soldier is back to play with Uglúk. I knew it would happen. I knew I'd get my chance."

"My lord?" 

The soft, plaintive call from behind Boromir shattered the seething tension that gripped Man and Orc. Uglúk let go of Boromir and surged to his feet, growling, "This one's mine! Get the others collared and penned. The whelp, too. We'll find a use for him."

"My lord?" Borlas called again, voice thick with tears.

Boromir took a ragged breath, fighting against the heaving sickness that gripped him at the feel of that thick, foul air in his throat. "Keep quiet, Borlas," he rasped out, "and keep your head down."

"Are they… are they going to eat us?"

"Not tonight."

The boy's low sob of fear was almost lost in the chaos of Orcs and prisoners. Boromir heard the tearing of fabric as hoods were removed, the cries and curses of men confronted by the leering faces of their captors, and the clang of hammers against iron. He could not construct a clear picture of what was happening, but a small voice in the back of his head told him that he was better off that way.

The noise was taking on a more ordered note as the Orcs fell to their tasks, and Boromir was bracing himself to face Uglúk again, as he surely would when the Orc chieftain had the leisure to enjoy killing him, when he heard Éothain calling to him above the din.

"My lord!"

Boromir tried to shift his position to face the Rider but only succeeded in crushing his wounded leg into the floor. Dropping his head to rest against cold stone, he muttered a curse.

"My lord, what would you have us do?"

He cursed again – a curse aimed at his men for looking to him for guidance at such a time and at himself for failing to give it to them – then raised his head and answered, grimly, "What you must to stay alive."

"Shut it, you!" an Orc growled, and a horned foot slammed into Boromir's midriff. He vaguely heard Éothain shouting a protest, then the solid crunch of a massive fist against bone and flesh. The Rider fell silent.

The Orc who had kicked him grabbed Boromir by the arm and dragged him over to the fire. There, the bandage was ripped from his wound and a hot poultice bound over it. Another Orc forced the neck of a flask between his teeth and poured a draught of burning liquor down his throat. He gagged on the foul stuff but swallowed it willingly, remembering that this drink was part of the orcish cure that had saved his life on the plains of Rohan. If Uglúk saw fit to heal his hurts, for whatever inscrutable reason, Boromir would take his medicine and gladly.

Uglúk strode about the cavern, shouting orders and urging his lads on with an assortment of praise, curses and blows, but he did not entirely forget about Boromir. The work well underway, he halted by the fire to examine his most valued prisoner. Oddly enough, he seemed glad that the Man had suffered no more than one slash to the leg. 

Delivering an affectionate slap to Boromir's cheek that nearly shattered his jaw, Uglúk said, "I want irons on this one. Hands behind him, and a stout collar so I can keep track of him." With another casually bruising pat, he added, "Lucky for you that you're blind, soldier-boy. It'll save you a trip to the lower tunnels and a deal of sweat."

Boromir was given no time to find an answer to this. Uglúk plowed back into the chaos of the cavern, while Boromir's jailors set about following their chief's orders. They caught him in brutal hands and shoved him flat on his face to cut the ropes that bound his wrists. Then, with an Orc leaning all its weight on his shoulders and another pinning his left arm to the ground, a third thrust his right hand through a band of cold iron. A hammer struck the iron a ringing blow, and the metal bent reluctantly about his wrist. Two more such blows brought the ends of the iron band tightly together. Then there came the rattle of heavy chain, his right arm was jerked across his body to lie at the small of his back, and his left hand was similarly confined.

When the Orcs let him go, Boromir pulled experimentally at his shackles. He was rewarded with the bite of rough metal in his flesh and an ugly laugh from one of his jailors. 

"Go on, then, soldier-boy. Give it another try."

He wasn't sure that he recognized the Orc's voice, though he thought it might be Ghasha. It had the same evil, sneering note to its voice that hinted at unnamed and unimaginable cruelties. The Orc prodded him in the side with a sharp nail, then grabbed the length of chain now stretched across his back and hauled on it. Boromir clenched his teeth against a cry of pain, as his arms were pulled upward, straining nerve and muscle, threatening to tear them from his shoulders. The shackles cut into his hands viciously, and he felt a runnel of warm blood trickle along his forearm.

"Leave off!" another Orc snarled. "He belongs to the Chief!"

"Gah!" His tormentor spat noisily. "Meat's meat, I say. Why should the Chief have the biggest piece all for himself?"

"Leave it, Ghasha!"

From the sound of it, the second Orc followed up his order with a blow. Ghasha dropped the chain and turned on his fellow with a hiss of rage.

"One beating not enough for you, maggot?" the second Orc jeered. "Keep your filthy hands off the Chief's toys, or you'll get more than a singed hide!"

"What's Uglúk want with the Whiteskin, anyway?"

"That's not for us to know, but I wager it'll be sweet. The Chief's been waiting a long time to pay this one out. Since the war. Since he," the Orc dropped his voice to a rasping murmur, "killed an Uruk."

Ghasha grunted sourly. "Lots of Whiteskins killed Uruks in the war, with their bright swords and sharp lances, curse them!"

"Not like this. I was there, Ghasha. I saw it." He nudged Boromir with a blunt toe and hissed, his voice gloating, "This blind _tark_ pulled Lugdush's knife from his belt and spitted him on it, neat as you please, in front of the lot of us. Poor old Lugdush was dead before he hit the ground, and Uglúk couldn't gut the filthy Whiteskin like he wanted, because he had orders. Prisoners had to be delivered alive."

"So he's going to do it now, is he?" Ghasha sucked his teeth noisily and asked, "Reckon he'll let us watch?"

"Only if you keep your paws to yourself. Let's get a collar on him, double-quick. The Chief doesn't like to be kept waiting."

Ghasha muttered steadily as he obeyed, but obey he did. Apparently, the chance to watch his commander eviscerate a captive was treat enough to keep him in line. While the unnamed Orc sat on Boromir to keep him quiet, Ghasha sorted through a slithering, clanging pile of metal to find yet another iron band. This one was big enough to circle Boromir's neck, and they hammered it into place with a few powerful strokes, while the Man held his breath and tried not to envision what that hammer would do to his head or neck should a blow fall awry. 

The collar in place and no damage done to their captive, the Orcs then pushed the end of a rope through the iron band and knotted it securely. Ghasha pulled a metal pot from the fire, its bottom scraping loudly on the stone floor, and scooped a handful of something from it to smear on the knot. Boromir smelled rancid grease.

Satisfied with his labors, the unnamed Orc sent Ghasha off to help with the other prisoners and called to Uglúk.

"The _tark's_ ready, Chief!"

Uglúk left off haranguing the Orcs who were dividing the plunder and crossed to the fire. He stooped over Boromir and caught the rope tied to his collar, just below the knot. With frightening ease, he pulled the tall Man to his feet. Boromir could not stifle a gasp of pain as his weight fell on his wounded leg, and he sagged weakly in the Orc's clutches, but Uglúk held him ruthlessly upright. He had to find his balance or choke to death on the metal band across his throat. As certain as he was that an agonizing death awaited him, Boromir could not surrender quite so easily, and he mustered his strength to pull his feet under him again.

"Good little soldier," Uglúk rumbled, approvingly. "Come with me, soldier, and I'll show you to your billet."

Fortunately for Boromir, they had no more than a handful of steps to go before they reached a rough hide curtain and a smaller chamber beyond it. He was only half conscious, his mind swimming into blessed darkness and his breeches soaked with fresh blood by the time Uglúk slackened his hold and let him slide to the ground again. Through the haze of pain and weakness, he felt a tug on his rope tether, then heard the hammer striking yet again. 

Uglúk's foul breath caressed his cheek, and the laughing growl sounded in his ears. "Sleep while you can, _my lord_. When I've seen the lads well fed and settled, I'll be back for a chat."

Boromir made no answer and did not move. The chill stone against his face had revived him enough that he was no longer in danger of swooning, but every nerve in his body ached with pain and weariness. As he lay, listening to Uglúk's footsteps headed for the doorway, the treacherous whisper of despair within him urged him to sleep. To forgetfulness. To surrender.

The curtain fell into place behind Uglúk, and Boromir was alone. Still he did not move, but simply lay upon the ground and let his senses explore this new prison.

He was in a much smaller cavern – more of a cave, really – with no fire pit in it. Only the hide curtain separated him from the main cavern, so this must be no more than an embrasure or antechamber, given over to Uglúk's private use. It stank like a midden, with the equally unpleasant odors of rotting food and badly-cured skins to thicken the reek. But when Boromir forcibly shut those smells from his awareness and concentrated on what lay behind them, he caught a whiff of the mustiness found in neglected storerooms and a sharp, bitter smell that he did not recognize. It reminded him of hot pitch but was less acrid and a good deal more subtle.

He felt the occasional brush of moving air, not enough to thin the dreadful stench, but enough to cool the sweat on his face and, as the general chill of the room soaked into him, make him shiver. There must be another opening in the walls of this chamber, a tunnel that led away from the Orc den. If he strained his ears, he could just hear the distant gurgle of running water. A stream. Certainly it made sense. Even Orcs needed water – for drinking, if not for washing – and the Misty Mountains were riddled with underground streams formed from melting snow. The soft, seductive noise made Boromir's throat tighten with longing.

With a muttered curse, he thrust aside all thoughts of streams leaping beneath the open sky, of Anduin the Great flowing past the shores of his home through the smiling woods of Ithilien, and pushed himself up to prop his back against the wall. His world now was stone – stone and flame and iron – and he could not afford to look beyond this world.

The manacles on his wrists were linked with more than a foot of chain, almost enough to allow his hands to fall comfortably at his sides. They had been made, he deemed, for larger creatures than himself. For Orcs, most likely. It would not be difficult to pull his legs through the chain and bring his hands to the front, or it would not be were his legs uninjured. He could feel the grate of metal in his wound and knew that any movement would only tear the hole in his leg bigger, but he was determined not to waste this opportunity.

Clamping his teeth together against any betraying noise, he began to squirm through the tight loop of his own arms and the iron chain. He got the chain beneath him easily enough and brought it forward until it rested behind his knees. Then he pulled his right knee up to his breast and worked his foot free of the chain. There remained only his left leg. 

It took him three tries, and in the end, he had to duck his head and sink his teeth into his bent right knee to stifle the cries that rose in his throat. The wound was burning, blood pulsing from beneath the bandage to soak his clothing and drip onto the stone beneath him, when he finally slipped the chain over his heel and off his foot. Then he could not bring himself to stand, but only sit with his head back, shaking, until the agony in his leg slowly faded to its usual dull roar.

His hands were still not steady when he reached to find the knot in his tether. He pulled it round to the front of the collar and worked at it with his fingers, but whatever foul-smelling stuff the Orc had smeared on it had effectively sealed it. He tore at it until his nails were bloody to no avail. 

Abandoning that hope, he followed the rope with his hands until he found the other end of it. This proved to be tied through an iron ring sunk in the wall of the cave. This knot, too, was sealed.

Boromir abandoned the attempt to work the knot free and tugged absently on the rope, while mulling over his various options. It seemed that he had only one – to pull the bolt from the wall and thus free himself, though what he hoped to accomplish alone against a swarm of Orcs he could not begin to guess. He trusted to his soldier's luck and general's ingenuity. A plan would come to him at the proper time. For now, he needed to concentrate on gaining his freedom. 

Awkwardly for the pain in his leg, he turned to face the wall and braced his feet on the rough stone to either side of the iron ring. The burn of metal in his wound only served to remind him that he had nothing to gain by half-measures. Either he fought his way free now, at whatever cost, or he died at Uglúk's hands. Wrapping the rope about his right hand, he locked his fingers around it and threw his weight backward. At the same moment, he forced his legs to straighten until every muscle in his body was straining against the bite of that metal spike in the stone.

The blood sang in his ears and sweat stood out on his face. The rope stretched, creaking in protest. The unyielding surface of the wall dug into his bare feet until they, too, bled. But the bolt held.

When he had to breathe or burst his lungs, Boromir collapsed onto the floor and let the rope fall slack. He lay gasping for air and waiting for the trembling to leave his limbs, then he heaved himself upright and attacked the bolt again. Again, it withstood him. 

By the fourth failed try, Boromir knew that he was beaten. He could barely force his hands to close around the rope, and his left leg was a deadweight dragging at his body. His skin was torn and bloodied at every point where rock, iron or rope touched it. And he was as much a prisoner as before.

With a ragged groan of defeat, the soldier of Gondor let his tether slide from nerveless fingers and toppled over to lie on the ground. He had just enough presence of mind to remember that he must not be found with his hands in front of his body, lest Uglúk decide that he needed more secure bonds, but he doubted that he had the strength to work his injured leg back through the loop of chain. He did it, but just barely, and the wave of dizziness that claimed him with the pain drove all awareness from him. Huddled in an Orc's den, shackled and leashed and fouled with his own blood, Boromir slipped once more into a fevered dream.

*** *** ***

He awoke to the touch of clawed hands on his body. They were turning him, pulling his wounded leg straight, and though he groaned under their rough treatment he did not resist them. He was too weak and disoriented either to struggle against his captor or to swallow the sounds of his own torment. His skin was slick with sweat in spite of the chill in the cave, and he shivered with revulsion at the feel of those brutal hands on his overly sensitive flesh. 

The Orc growled in his throat, apparently talking to himself, then remarked in the common tongue, "The wound is blackening."

It was Uglúk, Boromir realized vaguely. He lifted his head with some effort and muttered, "Metal. Spreading poison."

Once again, the Orc proved the deftness of his touch in the way he parted the torn flesh and slipped a single wicked talon into the slash. Boromir shuddered, his entire body jolting in reaction, but Uglúk pinned his leg firmly in place. The claw worked deeper into his leg, sending hot blood coursing from the wound, until it scraped on metal. 

Uglúk muttered in orcish again, then said, "I'll have that out."

"Why?" Boromir asked faintly. "You're going to kill me anyway,"

"Can't have you going off in a fever. That would spoil the fun."

"And the meat," he mumbled, the words slurring drunkenly together.

"You'll end up in the lads' bellies, right enough, but only when I'm done with you. Now hold your tongue and keep still."

Uglúk performed the delicate task of removing the shard from Boromir's leg by the simple expedient of reaching in and grabbing it, his fearsome claws acting like pincers to catch and hold the slippery metal. The surgery was ungentle and extremely painful but mercifully brief, and Boromir was still clinging stubbornly to consciousness when the Orc sat back on his haunches and grunted in satisfaction.

"Looks like a piece of that pretty metalwork the horse-boys use on their tack."

Boromir did not answer but lay shivering against the unforgiving stone of the cave floor. He had a laughable impulse to ask Uglúk for a blanket but managed to squelch it. Uglúk might choose to prolong his life, but he would hardly wish to make him comfortable.

The Orc busied himself over Boromir's wound. He poured a burning liquid into the slash – orcish liquor from the smell of it – then packed it with a soft substance that, miraculously, eased the pain. A cloth bound tightly over the dressing held it all in place and staunched the bleeding. 

By the time Uglúk had finished, Boromir was limp with relief and breathing almost normally. He still felt sick and shaken, alternately chilled and flushed with fever, but Uglúk's efficient remedies were having their effect already. When the Orc lifted his head and tilted a flask to his lips, Boromir twisted away and muttered, "Water. Please."

"Drink it!" Uglúk snapped. Then, as Boromir obediently swallowed the foul stuff, he added more genially, "You'll follow orders, like a good little soldier."

As the searing liquor poured its warmth down into his belly, lending him a fleeting strength, Boromir struggled to push himself up on his elbows. Uglúk obligingly pulled him the rest of the way up and propped him against the wall. He rested his aching head on the stone behind him, stretched his wounded leg out in front of him, and gratefully eased the stiffness from his shoulders.

Uglúk eyed him for a moment, then remarked, "Been busy, have you?" One claw traced a line up the bloody sole of his foot, and the Orc chuckled when Boromir flinched. Boromir instinctively balled his hands into fists to hide the cuts on them.

"Did you expect me to sit quietly and wait to die?"

Uglúk settled onto the floor, with the clank of weaponry and the scrape of stiff leather, then scratched himself noisily. "I expect you to batter yourself to bits against your chains. You're a fool, but a brave fool… for a Whiteskin."

"I will escape, Uglúk."

"You will try."

"I did it before."

"There are no squeaking rats to save you, this time, soldier-boy, and no longshanks." His rumbling voice took on a decidedly curious note when he said, "Tell me something. Did the longshanks make it out of Isengard?"

Boromir felt the weight of the star gem against his breast and smiled to himself. "The longshanks, as you call him, is King of Gondor."

"Gah!" Uglúk spat eloquently. "I knew that one was dangerous. The eyes of a cursed Elf he has!"

"Númenórean," Boromir corrected, softly, "of the line of ancient kings. He is King Aragorn Elessar."

Uglúk snorted contemptuously. "I've heard of your pretty king, with his pretty name, even down here in the bowels of the earth. And what of you? What pretty name do you go by?"

Boromir smiled humorlessly. "Little Soldier."

This time, the Orc's snort was one of amusement. "I like you. By the White Hand, I do. You're not a crawling, stinking coward, like most of the Men we snatch, and you talk like a high-born _tark_." Boromir felt Uglúk's claw slide into the torn collar of his shirt and catch the chain that lay against his neck. Uglúk lifted the gem delicately by its chain. "No simple soldier ever wore such a trinket, unless he filched it from a king's corpse."

"I did not steal it. It was a gift from my liege lord."

"Elvish make."

"Númenórean," Boromir said again, and he braced himself to feel that wicked hand snap the chain. To his surprise, Uglúk merely let the gem drop.

"You thought I would pinch it, didn't you? I won't. I've no use for Elvish baubles and no place to trade it for usable goods. You can keep your shiny stone, so long as you play nicely and behave yourself for old Uglúk."

Mingled hope and horror clenched at Boromir's innards, and he bowed his head to hide his reaction from his captor. He could not but rejoice to think that he might keep the Star with him through his last and darkest days, but he did not want to consider what Uglúk would ask of him in return.

"So you matter to this long-legged, long-eyed king of Men," the Orc mused. "He gives you a city's ransom to hang round your neck and a fancy title to set men bowing and scraping. _My lord_. Will he send an army to save you, do you think?"

"Nay. He will not."

"Clever longshanks. Only a fool would send puny Whiteskins beneath the mountains to fight the Uruk-hai."

Uglúk spoke the truth, and Boromir knew it. Aragorn was not coming for him, because Aragorn would not waste men's lives in a hopeless quest, and as King, he could not sacrifice himself. As ever, Gondor's hold on her king was stronger than that of his friend. "He is no fool."

"Will he ransom you, then?"

"With what? What do the Uruk-hai need from Gondor's King?"

"A fair question. We Uruks look to no one, since the White Hand fell, and ask for nothing. We take what we need." He laughed harshly. "It is the Uruks who could help your pretty king, if he thought to ask."

Boromir wondered, briefly, if his fever had so addled his brains that he was imagining all of this. None of it made sense, beyond the harsh fact of his imprisonment, and he had no reference point from which to plot his course. "How help him?"

"We keep the secrets of the Wizard's Vale. I, Uglúk, captain of the Fighting Uruk-hai, have weapons your _tark_ armies would pay out a fortune to own. But as you say, what can the King of Men offer me in return? Nothing." Uglúk spat on the floor, then reached forward to poke Boromir in the midriff with one finger. "I have all I need right here."

Ill and exhausted, too baffled to be truly frightened, Boromir asked, simply, "What do you mean to do with me, Uglúk?"

"Kill you, when it suits me."

"And the others? My men?"

"Men are good for only one thing. Meat. But they have strong backs and they'll work, with a taste of the whip to keep them in line, until we need them."

"You keep the Rohirrim as slaves?" Boromir demanded, appalled to think of those proud people laboring in the tunnels of the Misty Mountains under the lashes of these foul creatures.

"We've never taken horse-boys before. I have big plans for this lot. What with their horses, there's enough meat to feed us for a good many months, and those Men are hardier than most. I'll put 'em to good use before I hand 'em over to the lads for supper."

"What sort of use?" the Man asked, his voice hollow with dread.

"Stonework. Building fortifications. We've a cozy little bolt-hole, here at the butt end of the mountains – cozy enough that every maggot from here to the Mines wants to squeeze us out. The only way to hold them off is to block the tunnels as fast as they dig new ones. Not let them get a clear run at us. I've a fair number of mountain Orcs under my command – good lads, even if they do faint in the sunlight – and they do most of the stonework, but they can't manage it alone. I send them slaves for the dirty work, and I even make the Uruks take a turn. Fair's fair. You don't lug rock, you don't eat."

"Why kill the prisoners, if they are of use to you?"

Uglúk gave a rather nasty laugh. "Men break. A few weeks in the tunnels, and they're no good for anything but the stew pot. They're even too tough to eat raw, the way we like 'em best, but they taste plenty sweet. Did you know that Man-flesh is the sweetest meat there is?" he asked, smacking his lips. Boromir felt the blood drain from his face and knew that he had turned a sickly shade of green when Uglúk laughed again. "Maybe, if you behave yourself, I'll give you a taste."

"I'll starve and gladly."

"You'll do as you're told." The Orc heaved himself to his feet and nudged something across the stone floor toward Boromir. "You'll eat what you're given and no fuss, or I'll know how to deal with you! Get that into you."

"What is it?"

"A nice hunk of dried meat and some of the pap you Whiteskins make from stewed grains. You see? We know how to look after our guests."

"Meat?" Boromir's stomach lurched again, and he turned his face away from the spot where he knew the food lay. "I'll eat no meat you offer me, Orc."

Uglúk guffawed loudly enough to make Boromir wince. "You think I'd waste good Man's-flesh on the likes of you? It's horse-meat."

This did little to reassure Boromir, who felt his face pale even more at the thought of his faithful Fedranth butchered, sliced and dried over a sullen fire.

"Eat it, or I'll cram it down your gullet myself."

"Free my hands," Boromir countered.

Uglúk found this suggestion exquisitely funny. "You don't need your hands. You'll lap it up like the cur you are!"

In some corner of his mind, Boromir knew that this small indignity was meaningless and that Uglúk would doubtless come up with much worse to inflict upon him, but he had not yet surrendered himself to the ugly reality of captivity and was not ready to debase himself for the Orc's enjoyment, even in so small a thing. He clenched his teeth together and turned his head away from Uglúk with deliberate insolence.

"Gah! Fool! I'll cut off your ears!"

"Then I will be spared the sound of your voice."

An enormous hand lashed out, grabbing him below the jaw and tightening its hold dangerously. Boromir fought to breath around the suffocating grip, while the blood pounded in his ears and his thoughts reeled into darkness. He knew a fleeting hope that Uglúk would misjudge his own strength and break his neck.

As abruptly as it had come, the pressure on his throat eased, and Boromir opened his mouth to pull in a gasping breath. In the same instant, Uglúk thrust a chunk of dried meat between his teeth, making him choke afresh. He had no choice but to chew and swallow, especially with the Orc's massive hand still clamped warningly on his throat. The meat tasted rather musty and had clearly been smoked over a dung fire, but it was definitely horse, not some fouler flesh. Boromir did not hesitate to eat it, now that he knew what it was. When Uglúk tilted a rough wooden bowl of porridge to his lips, he swallowed that as well.

Satisfied that his resistance had spared him the humiliation of lapping his food from the floor, Boromir let his body relax back against the wall and ignored the hand on his throat. 

Uglúk gave him a final, admonitory squeeze, and rose to tower over him. "You think you're mighty clever, don't you, little soldier? Maybe you are." He chuckled. "Aye. Maybe you are. But don't push your luck too far. I like your company, but that won't stop me from gutting, skinning and boning you the next time you squeak too loudly. With a very dull blade."

"I await your pleasure," Boromir murmured.

With another bark of laughter, Uglúk strode out of the chamber, leaving Boromir alone with the darkness and his own grim thoughts.

*** *** ***

"Marshal! Marshal Elfhelm!"

A fist hammered on the door, bringing Elfhelm up out of his seat. Legolas and Gimli exchanged a look across the table, and Gimli lowered his tankard as both turned to watch the Marshal cross to the door. Elfhelm reached it in a few strides and flung it open. The man on the other side had his hand up to knock again, and he started at the suddenness with which his commander appeared.

"What's amiss, Halfa? Why do you disturb our meal?"

"Horses, Sir!"

Gimli gave a snort of amusement. "Fancy that! Horses in lands of the Riddermark."

"Nay, Master Dwarf," Halfa protested, "they are not ours. Or rather, they are, but they are not!"

As an officer in Elfhelm's _éored_, which patrolled the lands of the Westfold and came often to Helm's Deep, Halfa was well acquainted with Gimli and stood in no awe of him or his Elvish companion. His flustered demeanor sprang from whatever trouble had brought him running to the Hornburg to burst in upon his commander at supper, not from the august company in which he found himself.

"Two horses galloped up the Deeping Coomb, as though the armies of Mordor ran on their heels. They are before the wall and will let none approach."

Elfhelm frowned. "Horses of Rohan?"

"Aye."

"Wear they saddles or tack?"

"Halters only, and trailing tethers. Come, sir, and see for yourself."

"I will come." He turned to offer his guests and apology, but Legolas and Gimli were already on their feet and moving to join him.

Together, they descended the narrow stairway to the main hall of the fortress, where those of the _éored_ not on duty took their ease. The Riders glanced up as their commander strode through the hall, but he gestured for them to keep their places. Outside, dusk had thickened into night, but the waxing moon and brilliant stars frosted the stones of the Hornburg with silver light. All along the Deeping Wall, torches burned, while more torches lined the causeway and dike below. Elfhelm took a torch from its iron stanchion by the door and led the way down the narrow causeway.

Legolas stayed courteously behind the Man, though his eyes needed no torch to see the stones beneath his feet or the beasts on the grass below. He watched as one of a handful of Riders who circled the animals tried to approach. The larger horse reared up on its hind legs and struck out at the man in fury with its front hooves. The man staggered back, and the horse flung up its head, eyes rolling so that they flashed in the torchlight. It neighed loudly, danced away from the nearest Rider, and tossed back its head again. Legolas saw the stain of sweat upon its grey flanks and foam dripping from its mouth.

"They have run hard," he said in Elfhelm's ear. "The smaller is near to collapse."

"Aye." 

"That great, grey beast looks familiar," Gimli rumbled. "Is it not…"

"Fedranth! 'Tis Fedranth!" With a terrible cry, Legolas sprang away from Gimli's side and down the causeway at a run, his feet flying. Neither Man nor Dwarf tried to match his pace on the steep ramp, but Gimli followed as quickly as his shorter legs could manage.

When still twice the height of a Man above the ground, Legolas leapt over the side of the causeway to land, lightly, on the grass. The Riders threw him startled glances as he strode between them and directly up to the dancing, snorting horses. One of the Men called a warning that the Elf ignored. 

One hand out, palm open, Legolas approached Fedranth. The lordly beast was trembling in exhaustion and fear, his sides heaving, his eyes glazed and half-mad, blood showing black on his nose where the rope halter had torn the skin. As Legolas approached, he sidled away, jerking his head to avoid the reaching hand. Legolas began speaking to him in his own tongue, voice low and soothing, while his hand never wavered. The horse feinted with his front hooves, threatening to rear and strike again, but the Elf's musical words forestalled him. 

Elfhelm and Gimli reached the ring of watching Riders and hung back, so as not to further enrage the horse and endanger Legolas. As Fedranth feinted and subsided yet again, Elfhelm bent down to murmur in Gimli's ear,

"You know this mighty creature?"

"'Tis Fedranth. Boromir's mount."

Elfhelm sucked in his breath in a hiss of alarm but said nothing more. Legolas had now drawn close enough to touch the horse, and any interruption might end in bloodshed.

Slowly, wearily, the great horse let his head droop until his lips touched the Elf's palm. Legolas stepped up beside him and ran his free hand over Fedranth's sweat-streaked neck, hesitating when his fingers found a bloody furrow in the sleek hair. He leaned closer to sing softly in the horse's ear words none other could hear or understand. Fedranth whickered and nudged Legolas with his head.

While Elfhelm, Gimli and the Men of Rohan waited in suspense, nerves stretched agonizingly, Legolas stroked and soothed the frightened animal. He, too, was consumed with urgency, but he reined it in and bent all his energies to calming the horse. It seemed an eternity before he finally lifted his head and called over his shoulder,

"Come!"

Elfhelm and Gimli approached first, while the other Riders trailed cautiously behind them. The second horse took its lead from Fedranth, and when the Steward's lordly mount suffered guiding hands upon him, so too did his smaller companion. The Riders caught the other horse by his halter and began to sooth him.

Elfhelm hovered at Legolas' shoulder, eyes grim and face lined with worry. "Is it indeed the Lord Boromir's horse?"

"Aye." Legolas ran his fingers down the length of the gash in Fedranth's neck. "Brave Fedranth," he murmured in one grey velvet ear. "Faithful friend. Where is your lord, brave Fedranth? What has befallen him?"

The suggestion of a familiar stench made the Elf grimace in disgust. He brought his face close to the wound and inhaled deeply. "_Yrch!_"

"What is it?" the Rider asked.

"There is poison in this wound. It stinks of Orcs!"

"Orcs? No Orc has set foot upon the fields of Rohan since the fall of Saruman!"

"Here is something more for you, Master Elf!" Gimli called.

Legolas moved swiftly along Fedranth's side to where Gimli stood near his rump. There, in the flickering light of Elfhelm's torch, he saw five deep, wicked gouges in the smooth hide, as if an enormous hand had reached to grab the beast as it fled and caught only a fistful of blood and hair. The Elf spread his fingers wide and tried to measure the span of the claws that had made those wounds. It was half again as large as his hand.

"A wolf, mayhap?" Gimli suggested.

"Nay. 'Tis too big."

"The wargs of the mountains have paws of that size."

"But not that shape. It was a hand made these marks, Gimli, not a paw."

"Do not say it," the Dwarf growled, fiercely.

"Can you not smell it? The carrion reek?"

"_Do not say it!_"

Legolas bowed his head for a moment, one hand still resting on Fedranth's rump beside the fearsome wounds. When he lifted his head again and turned to meet Gimli's eyes, his own had turned dark and hollow with pain. "Boromir was attacked by Orcs. That much is clear. What may have befallen him and his escort, we cannot know until we find them."

Gimli glowered at him, his powerful hands opening and closing helplessly as they sought for a weapon with which to meet this staggering blow. "Find them. Aye, we will find them!"

"Where was Lord Boromir headed when he left Helm's Deep?" Elfhelm asked.

"The Fords of Isen," Legolas answered. "He meant to ride north, into Dunland." His control slipped, and he cried out furiously, "Aiee! Curse me for a fool! I should never have let him cross the borders of Rohan alone!"

"Nay, Legolas," Gimli said, brusquely, "you are not to blame. You are not the Steward's nursemaid."

The Elf gave a strangled laugh at the sound of that name with which Boromir had taunted him so often. "Oh, that I were! I would have shut him in the Hornburg to keep him safe against Aragorn's return!"

"Aragorn. Ye gods, how are we to tell Aragorn of this?"

"I will tell him." Turning abruptly on his heel, Legolas started for the causeway, drawing Gimli, Elfhelm and a handful of Riders along in his wake. "I ride within the hour."

"Ride to where?" Elfhelm demanded. "How can you hope to find the King in all the vastness of Eriador? 'Tis madness to try!"

"He is in Imladris, or was at last report. I will make for Imladris by the shortest road, and if I do not find him there, I will follow where e'er he has gone."

Gimli, laboring hard to match the Elf's swift pace, growled, "Have no fear, Man of Rohan. There is no creature in Middle-earth can escape the keen eyes of yonder Elf. If Aragorn yet lives, Legolas will find him."

They reached the doors and Legolas flung them open. "Send word to Éomer King. Imrahil must be warned." He faltered, breaking stride, and turned his pain-darkened eyes on Gimli. "I would have you with me on this most desperate of errands, Master Dwarf, but I fear that Arod cannot carry us both so far."

"I know it." Gimli cleared his throat noisily and looked away from his friend's face to gain command of his own. "If I thought the beast could bear my weight, I would lash myself to his back before I let you ride without me, but I'll do naught to hinder you."

Legolas held out his hand, and Gimli grasped it firmly in a soldier's salute. "I will march with the first company of searchers to go north," Gimli assured him, gruffly. "You may depend on the Dwarves of Aglarond to do their utmost."

The Elf nodded his thanks, then murmured, "Good fortune go with you, Gimli, son of Glóin."

"And with you, Legolas of Ithilien."

Giving his friend's arm a final squeeze, Legolas turned and raced through the hall, headed for the stables in the Deep and the faithful mount that would carry him north to Imladris. To Aragorn.

**_To be continued…_**


	7. An Ill Wind

**Chapter 7: _An Ill Wind_**

It was raining again. Water dripped from leaf and twig to patter on the thick peat moss that covered the ground and soak slowly through blanket and cloak. The hollow, set in a wooded hillside above the road, offered little protection from the rain, but it was cozier than the thicket that sheltered the ponies, and Pippin knew he should feel grateful for what comforts he had. But the blood of the Old Took, which sang so valiantly in his veins through the hours of riding beneath a warm, autumn sun, had sunk to low ebb in the cold, damp, thoroughly miserable night, and Pippin was finding it difficult to remember that he had embarked upon this adventure willingly. He wanted nothing so much as to wake up and find himself in his own bedroom, with the smell of mulled wine and the crackle of a good fire filling the room.

Yet another raindrop struck him in the face, and he rolled over with an exasperated sigh, pushing himself up on his elbows to stare around the little hollow. He could see nothing in the darkness. Moon and stars were hidden behind the clouds, and dawn was yet hours away. The only light in all the world, it seemed, was the orange glow of smoldering Longbottom Leaf in Merry's pipe. 

Kicking his legs free of his damp, clinging blanket, Pippin got to his feet and pulled his cloak more closely about him. He crossed the hollow to where Merry sat at its lip, smoking, staring down at the faint, wet glimmer of the road barely visible between the trees. Pippin sat down beside him and drew his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms about them for warmth. Neither hobbit spoke for some minutes.

"The storm will blow over by morning," Merry murmured into the long silence.

Pippin shivered. "You said the same thing last night."

"The wind is stiffening."

"And blowing the clouds east – the same way we are headed," Pippin reminded him, sourly. "By the time we reach the Misty Mountains, the rain will have turned to snow. What's happened to our lovely, mild autumn?"

Merry gave him a half smile, lit by the glow of his pipe as he drew on it. "Go back to sleep, Pip."

"What about you?"

"Not just yet."

Pippin did not need to ask why Merry had abandoned his bed to hold vigil in the rain. Poor old Merry was looking downright haggard, what with the nightmares that disturbed his sleep and the worry that hounded him when awake. At this rate, he would not make it to Gondor. He would fret himself to a wraith before they crossed the Greyflood.

"I say, Merry," he blurted out, suddenly, "are you quite sure we're going in the right direction?"

Merry shot him a wry glance. "Minas Tirith is east. Even you should remember that much."

"Yes, but why Minas Tirith? Don't get me wrong," he added, hurriedly, "I would love to see the White City again. But how do you know where we should be going, when you can't remember the dream?"

"Boromir is in Minas Tirith," Merry answered, his voice flat with the effort of holding in his strained emotions. "I must find Boromir."

Pippin shifted uncomfortably. He had not spoken directly of their errand since the night Merry appeared on his doorstep and announced that he was going to Gondor. At the time, though Pippin had asked a few obligatory questions, he had not worried overmuch about the reasons. He was bored with the quiet life of the Shire and perfectly willing to plunge into a new adventure at his kinsman's bidding. Now, with the rain dampening his enthusiasm and Merry's anxiety filling him with uneasiness, Pippin was not nearly so sure that he had made the right choice.

Taking his courage in his hands, Pippin turned to meet Merry's gaze squarely. "Why must you find Boromir?" he asked.

"Because he needs my help."

Pippin swallowed nervously. "What kind of help?"

"I don't know."

"_How_ do you know?"

"I can't explain it, Pip. I can only tell you that all is not well with Boromir."

"But surely…" Pippin broke off, knowing that it was useless to argue with Merry about this. His stubborn, valiant, loyal Brandybuck cousin would run headlong into a dragon's mouth, if he saw Boromir go in ahead of him, and no warning from Pippin could stop him. With a shrug and a smothered yawn, he said, "I suppose there's nothing for it but to go to Minas Tirith and see for ourselves."

Merry smiled wearily at him. "You think I've run mad, don't you? That I'm dragging you all the way to Gondor on a fool's errand?"

"Not a fool's errand, precisely, but a doomed one. I believe you when you say that Boromir is in trouble, and I understand why you want to find him. But the way I see it, we'll likely arrive too late for the battle, with weapons too small to do any good, only to find that Boromir has won it without us. A very resourceful fellow, Boromir."

"He is that."

"So what good will a pair of tired, wet, hungry hobbits do him? He'll give us a blistering scold for tramping half across Middle-earth on our own, then send us off to kick our heels while he gets back to work."

"I hope you're right, Pip. By all the Valar, I hope you're right!"

"It's all very well for you," Pippin grumbled, in an attempt to hide the surge of pity and sorrow in him at Merry's desolate cry. "You've never been afraid of Boromir's scolds. They frighten _me_ to death."

Merry gave a sob of laughter. "I've noticed how you cower before him in abject terror."

Pippin tried to picture himself cringing away from Boromir in fear and chuckled at the absurd image. "I wish he were here, now," he blurted out. "We could talk him into giving us his blanket, not to mention half his supper, and we'd be a good deal more comfortable."

Merry said nothing, but Pippin felt the depression and worry wrap about him more closely still, like a damp shroud.

"I'm sorry, Merry. That was a stupid thing to say."

"No. I was thinking much the same thing." He knocked the embers from his pipe on a gnarled root, then methodically crushed them into the wet ground beneath his thumb. When he had finished, he tucked the pipe into his pocket and climbed stiffly to his feet. "Let's try if we can sleep for a few hours."

"Huh. Little chance of that, with this cursed rain." As he followed Merry back into the shadows of the hollow and climbed beneath his blanket again, Pippin looked up at the wet leaves hanging above his head, just waiting their chance to shower water down upon him. "Go on, then!" he called to the brooding rain clouds. "Go water the mountains, and leave a couple of wet, miserable hobbits in peace!"

"It's only rain, Pip," Merry said, sleepily.

"Only rain…" Pippin twisted onto his side, pulling the blanket up to cover his face, still muttering, "Only rain, he says," under his breath. Within minutes, the hollow was silent but for the snoring of hobbits.

*** *** ***

"Rain." Gimli scowled at the roiling mass of clouds piled up to the west. "'Twill be a wet night, by the looks of it."

Elfhelm turned to follow his gaze, and a frown darkened his face. "This is an ill turn, Master Dwarf."

"The Men of Rohan do not melt in the rain, I trust!"

"'Tis not the dampness of our blankets that troubles me, but what this storm means for our search."

"Eh?" Gimli turned sharply to look at the Rider, whose mount paced steadily along beside his own. 

"The rain that falls upon our heads falls also upon rock, leaf and earth. If we find not some sign of the Orc attack before yon great-bellied clouds fetch up against the mountains and empty themselves upon the hills below, we never will find it. All trace of the Steward will be lost."

"Then we had best make haste."

Elfhelm nodded toward a thin fan of smoke rising from behind the nearest hill and spreading quickly on the wind. "There lies the village we seek."

Gimli flailed his short legs until his heels struck the horse's flanks and set the beast trotting briskly toward the narrow mouth of the valley ahead. Elfhelm spurred after him, and the rest of their party followed as they might. The horsemen kept their places in the ordered company, while the marching Dwarves, with their picks upon their shoulders and their axes in their belts, stumped doggedly along in their wake, confident that they would catch up to their mounted comrades once they halted to make camp.

The rough-hewn hills rose steeply on either side, and a twisted stream led them into the valley, its bed choked with stones. The village huddled between those toothed hills hardly deserved the name. It was a mean hamlet, no more than a handful of poor stone and turf dwellings, with wooden lean-tos propped against their sides and skinny fowl pecking at the gravel in their yards. One building stood apart from the rest, hard by the stream. It was a sturdy wooden structure, with a stone chimney and a well-swept yard. The great doors, standing wide open, and the collection of tools ranged in orderly rows behind it proclaimed it to be a smithy. The smoke they had seen rose from its chimney.

Gimli shot the Rider a speaking glance and turned his mount toward the smithy. Together, he and Elfhelm splashed through the shallow stream and rode into the yard. A dog bounded out of the smithy, barking lustily at them, and a moment later, a man followed him.

The man was huge and squat, nearly as broad as he was tall, and of a seemingly uniform color of brown. He squinted up at the mounted strangers, face schooled into blank stupidity, and said nothing. The dog yelped and tried to leap at them, only to back down from the threat of the great horses.

Elfhelm nodded a solemn greeting to the man. "Good day to you. Are you the smith?"

"Ar," the man said, giving no hint as to whether this was an affirmative or a negative answer.

The Rider swung himself easily from the saddle and looped the reins about his arm. "I am Elfhelm, Marshal of the Riddermark, here at the behest of Éomer King."

The smith's eyes narrowed. He grunted a wordless reply.

"And this is my comrade-in-arms, Gimli of Aglarond."

The man regarded him for a long moment, then opined, "Dwarf." 

"Aye, I am that," Gimli growled.

"On a horse."

"And on this horse I will stay, my good fellow. I mean no discourtesy, but I have not the long legs of yon Rider and cannot be forever hopping up and down from this great, tall beast on a whim."

The smith looked as though he were about to smile but controlled the urge. Nodding to the Dwarf pleasantly, he looked again to the Rider. "What do horse-breeders in these parts?"

"I am come on urgent business," Elfhelm said. "I search for others of my kind, Men of Rohan, who may have passed through your village some days past."

"Mounted?"

"Aye. Six of them, led by a man who wears a black cloth over his eyes." The smith pursed his lips thoughtfully but said nothing. "He rides a grey warhorse, larger than most, and carries a young boy before him as guide. Have you seen such a man?"

"Ar."

Gimli nudged his mount forward a step. "He was here? You have seen him?"

"Ar. Big man, bearded, in fine clothes and chain mail. Fair spoken. Carried a long sword."

"That is he! It must be he! Gave he a name?"

"Called himself Boromir, as I recall."

Gimli pounded his fist on the saddle horn in triumph and bellowed, "Well do you recall, my good fellow! And welcome is this news!"

"When was this, Master Smith?" Elfhelm asked, his voice urgent.

The smith scratched his head, eyes narrowed in thought. "More than a se'ennight past. Nearer a fortnight. Came from the south, they did, looking to buy provender. Stayed an hour or twain, then rode on."

"Which way were they headed?" Gimli demanded.

The man pointed northward. "Yonder."

Elfhelm looked up at the Dwarf, frowning. "Nearly a fortnight? He could not have gone far beyond this place ere he was waylaid."

The smith's manner turned abruptly from cautiously helpful to truculent. "Waylaid, is it? And grand horsemen come a-looking, with fair speech on their tongues and spears in their hands?" He planted his ham-like hands at his waist and glared darkly at Elfhelm. "Your fine lord left this place in health. If he's run afoul of trouble, 'twas none of our doing."

"Nay, my good man, I did not think it!" Elfhelm cried. "We have no quarrel with you and do not doubt your honesty! We seek naught but word of our lost comrades."

"We're honest folk, though we be Dunlendings and no more than dirt beneath the hooves of your horses!"

"I say, fellow," Gimli interjected, drawing the smith's eye and halting his flow of bitter words, "is there another village, another settlement of any sort, north of here? Some place where our friends might have found shelter?"

The smith considered this query at length, turning it this way and that, searching for some hint of threat or insult in it. At last, he shook his head. "Lies a village to the west, nearer the Road, and a shepherd's cot in the hills to the east. North lies only barren rock, hunting wolves, and winter's cold."

"And yet the company rode north, you say."

"Ar."

"Then so must we," Elfhelm said, as he reached for his stirrup. Before he had fitted his toe into it, he hesitated and turned again to the smith. "One question more, Master Smith. Have you heard aught of orc raids hereabouts?"

The man's face darkened again, and his eyes grew hard. He spat noisily into the dirt. "Come down from the mountains by night, they do, in packs. Slaughtering. Burning. Thieving cattle and food." 

"Even so far from the mountains as this?"

"And farther. Hulged's Vale, nigh to The Gap, has lost men and children, they say. Snatched from their pastures. Even from their beds. I myself have lost blades, kettles, hammers…"

"You have told no one of these raids?"

"Who do we tell, horse-breeder?" he demanded, his voice thick with scorn, "Yon king in his golden hall? Would he foul his bright spears in aid of such as we?"

Elfhelm opened his mouth to deliver a hot rejoinder, but Gimli caught his eye and silenced him. The blood hatred between Dunland and Rohan could not be done away with by the fall of Sauron or the coming of a king to Gondor. Dunlendings still resented and feared the Rohirrim, while the Horse Lords still looked down from their high saddles in contempt and distrust upon the hill-folk. Too many generations of bloodshed lay between them. Only Gimli's presence and the long years of trust between the Men of Dunland and the Dwarves of the Misty Mountains allowed Elfhelm to glean any help from these taciturn, suspicious, guarded people.

Gimli bent a knowing eye on the smith and said, reasonably, "There are Dwarves in the White Mountains again, my friend, and more coming with each passing season. The Old Ones, the Ents, dwell in Isengard. The Kings of Gondor and Rohan look to make safe all the lands of Men, now that the Shadow has fallen. There are many soldiers of many races who would foul their spears – or their swords, axes, arrows and branches – in the aid of Dunland, should you ask it of them."

The smith grunted sourly. "We Dunlendings look to our own."

"You may soon have help, whether you look for it or not. Boromir's mischance has turned all the eyes of the South upon you, for he is beloved of the King and of untold value to all our peoples. We are only the first of many who will come, seeking him, seeking the Orcs who took him, seeking vengeance for aught he may have suffered."

"Who is this fine lord, then?"

"Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Anórien."

The man's brows rose fractionally, and something akin to wonder showed in his eyes. "It was he, in truth?"

"Aye."

"We have heard tell of Gondor's steward and his mighty deeds. 'Tis said that he escaped from the dungeons of the White Wizard, and that the very trees of the Forest awoke at his command to bring Isengard to ruin."

Gimli smiled. "A fanciful version of the tale, but true enough, on the whole. Boromir and King Elessar did indeed escape the dungeons of Isengard, with the help of many folk, including the Ents of Fangorn." His smile widened into a grin. "And one Dwarf."

Amazement and avid curiosity suffused the smith's dour face. "You fought in the battle for Isengard?"

"I did. As did Marshal Elfhelm and all of these Riders."

"My _éored_ rode upon the gates from beneath the sheltering branches of Fangorn's trees," Elfhelm said, his eyes glinting with amusement at the smith's reaction. "We watched, as the Ents tore Saruman's walls asunder like dry bread and cast them into the dust."

"The trees came at the Steward's command," the smith breathed.

"Nay," Gimli amended, "they came at the request of Treebeard, their shepherd, and because they sought vengeance on Saruman."

"I would hear the tale." The smith stepped back, gesturing toward the building behind him, and said, eagerly, "The true tale, as you know it, Master Dwarf. If you and this Rider will accept the hospitality of my house, you might tell it me in comfort."

"I regret that we cannot."

"I have ale and a fat haunch, freshly roasted…"

"Indeed, my good fellow, I would give much to sit at your table and ply you with tales, but our errand is most urgent. We must pick up Boromir's trail ere the rains come."

"If your steward was taken by Orcs, you will not find him."

Gimli's face darkened, and he growled, "I will not abandon my friend to the mercy of the Orcs, though all I find of him is his broken body. I _will_ find him, and I will bring him home to Gondor. I have sworn it, and no pack of filthy Orcs will make an oath-breaker of Gimli, Glóin's son!"

The smith shrugged. Pointing to the north, where the valley opened into a rough pasture, he said, "They followed the stream, bearing east and climbing toward the vale. That is the last I saw of them."

"My thanks, good fellow. If the fates are with us, you will see us again. If not…"

The smith grunted and waved a farewell, turning back to his forge with no backward glance at the strange visitors in his yard. Gimli, who had pondered the wisdom of offering the smith some recompense for his trouble, did not call him back. Clearly the man looked for nothing from them, and most likely would take offense if Gimli tried to press coins upon him.

Elfhelm swung himself into the saddle and spurred toward the stream. Gimli followed, a bit clumsily, as his limited riding skill did not allow for tight turns and quick starts. Fortunately, his mount knew his own business and needed little guidance from the Dwarf perched so precariously on his back. They splashed across the stream and met the _éored_ waiting patiently on its far bank.

"We ride north," Elfhelm said to his standard-bearer. 

The standard dipped in silent command. With the swift precision for which the Rohirrim were justly renowned, the entire body of horsemen broke into a canter and swept through the valley, carrying Gimli at their head and drawing the other Dwarves behind them. As they rode along the verge of the pasture, Gimli cast an uneasy glance to the West and saw the storm clouds looming even closer than before. He sighed and turned his eyes away.

"The rain will reach us by nightfall," he muttered.

Elfhelm spared the clouds a single glance. "Aye."

"And Boromir's trail will be lost. What hope have we of finding him in the hours that remain to us?"

Elfhelm answered him with another question, asking, shortly, "Of what worth are the oaths of Dwarves?"

Gimli snarled a wordless retort and kicked his horse's sides, urging him at the next tumbled slope with a ferocity born of rage and frustration. "Let the rain fall!" he bellowed back at the Rider. "Let the sky open and the earth beneath her drown! I will not be foresworn!"

*** *** ***

Time meant little in the eternal blackness beneath the Misty Mountains, and for Boromir, it ceased to exist all together. He lay in a fevered dream, lost even to the harsh reality of his own captivity, while poisons burned in his blood and his spirit fought to free itself from the bonds of bone and flesh. Gladly would he have fled the prison of his own body; gladly would he have shaken off the suffering and despair that dwelt within that tortured frame, but that some part of him clung stubbornly to life and steadfastly denied him his release.

He knew naught of his comrades' fate in that uncharted time. He did not hear the jeering of the Orcs, as they drove their captives deep into the tunnels with  whips and curses. Nor did he hear Borlas weeping when the Orcs dragged the lifeless corpse of a Rider into the cavern and threw it down by the fire – the first of the Rohirrim to fall from exhaustion and die beneath an orc blade, ready for the great iron kettle to receive him. The laughter and carousing at the feast that followed did not reach him, though he awoke long enough to hear a Man's voice lifted in a song of mourning for the amusement of the Orcs. The lament touched some chord in his memory, even in his befogged state, and Boromir struggled back to awareness to listen to the plaintive tune. Then, the song done, he sank back into oblivion, his own agony and that of the singer dissolving into the great sea of pain that forever lapped at his shivering flesh.

In his other brief moments of wakefulness, he often felt an Orc's clawed hands upon him and heard a familiar voice snarling orders that he did not understand. Food was forced upon him, and water, though most often it was the burning liquor that he had come to associate with orcish medicine. Once it was another voice that spoke to him from the darkness. A child's voice.

"Please, my lord, I beg you! You must eat!"

Boromir did not want to eat, though he could not remember why the thought of food filled him with such horror. He twisted his head away from the touch of wood against his lips, muttering a protest, and felt a thick, cold liquid spill down his chin.

"'Tis porridge," the child assured him, in a voice ragged with tears. "And there is bread, water, meat…"

Boromir's stomach heaved, and he rolled onto his side, pulling those parts of his body that still answered to his commands into a huddled, protective knot. 

"My lord!"

The child's pleading faded into the roar of blood in his ears, until he could no longer hear it. Then the dream took him again, and the world fell away into nothingness. 

When he awoke to silence, he knew that something had changed. His body ached in every joint and sinew, his head pounded as if with the beating of Dwarf hammers, his mouth was sour and dry, and his leg burned with the pain of torn muscle and corrupted flesh. And yet, something had most definitely changed.

For one thing, he was keenly aware of his surroundings and remembered well where he was. For another, he could hear no sounds in the cave beyond his own rasping breath and the distant whisper of water against stone – no hint as to what might have awakened him. This told him that he had thrown off the tatters of his dream by his own choice, not at the bidding of his Orc captors. Still further, he did not feel the urge to tumble back into sleep, much though he relished the idea of escaping his current troubles in unconsciousness. His thoughts were oddly clear, considering his physical state, and he knew the quiet tickling of curiosity in the back of his mind. He lay, unmoving, for many minutes, absorbing the fragments of reality that came his way and doing his best to assemble them into a coherent whole. 

He wore his chains still. The iron collar about his neck had rubbed gashes in his throat that hurt with the dull ache of old wounds. His head rested on a bundle of fabric that held a whole medley of odors within its folds. It was homespun of some sort – rough against his face – and must once have belonged to a herdsman. Boromir could still smell the sheep. A blanket of sorts covered him, shielding his fevered body from the chill of the cave. It was not until he moved and brushed his chin against its edge that he felt the fur trim on it and realized that it was his own cloak.

This troubled him. He could not understand why Uglúk, who so clearly wanted him dead, should doctor his hurts, nurse him through his illness, and give him his own purloined cloak as a blanket. Were it any other than an Orc treating him thus, he would have called it mercy. But Orcs knew no more about mercy than they did about honor or fealty or friendship. Uglúk must have some dire and subtle plot in hand, some means of making Boromir suffer for the amusement of his troops that was too ghastly for his human mind to grasp, making the Orc's actions baffling to him.

Whatever awaited him, Boromir could do naught but meet it with what dignity remained to him. He had neither the strength nor the weapons to resist his captors, and in his current state, he would be hard put to it to stay awake through whatever hideous torture Uglúk planned for him. The demands of sensing and sorting the details of his surroundings had already set his head to throbbing and his heart to fluttering oddly in his breast. He wanted nothing more than to sleep, and if someone would only come and offer him a drink of water to wash the foulness from his mouth, sleep he would.

He turned his face into the rough pillow and tried to ease his body into a more comfortable position. The stones dug painfully into his flesh and made his fevered skin burn, but shifting to another place on the floor did nothing to relieve the pain. His right arm, pinned beneath his weight and pulled behind him by the shackles he wore, had gone numb while he slept. He twisted farther onto his stomach, trying to relieve the pressure on that arm, and felt something brush his forehead. Water slopped against his face.

Boromir abruptly lifted his head, ignoring the stab of pain the movement caused. He could now smell fresh water, and as the droplets ran down his face to dampen his cracked lips, he could taste it. His throat closed up tight with longing, and forgetting his pride in thirst, he brought his mouth down to touch the edge of the object that rested on the floor.

It was a wooden bowl. Boromir recognized the weight and texture of it. When he leaned against the rim, it tipped onto its curved side, spilling water down his chin and onto the floor, allowing him to capture a mouthful of the precious liquid. Correcting the angle of his head, so as to waste as little of the water as possible, he tilted the bowl again and drank greedily from it. Only when the bowl was too nearly empty to yield its contents and the shards of pain in his head too brutal to be withstood any longer did he finally sink back onto his makeshift pillow.

He knew that he had just behaved as Uglúk wanted, lapping water from the floor like a beast, but he could not find it in him to care at this moment. Later, perhaps, his pride would prick him and he would remember this small humiliation with shame. But for now, he was too grateful for the easing of his thirst to worry overmuch about his wounded dignity. 

He would do battle with the Orc chieftain again. He would thwart him at another turn. He would play the proud soldier another day. For the present, he would sleep.

*** *** ***

From her vantage point high in the tower, Gil followed the rider's progress across the Pelennor with a mixture of curiosity and concern. He rode swiftly, the horse beneath him galloping on the packed dirt of the road with all the speed it could muster, its gait heavy with weariness. The great beast had ridden many leagues without respite – so much was plain even to Gil's unschooled eye – and she wondered what errand could be so urgent that a Man of Rohan would drive his beloved horse so close to the limits of its strength.

That they came from Rohan Gil was certain, though she could not make out the leaping horse upon the man's tunic from such a distance. She had seen more than one messenger from Éomer King ride up to the gates of the White City, and she had learned to recognize them from their bearing, their skill as riders, and the magnificence of their mounts. 

Gil had spent many a lonely hour at this window, gazing north and west, waiting for the glint of sunlight on steel that would herald the return of her lord. In those hours of fruitless watching, she had become wise in the ways of all the many peoples who filled the streets of Minas Tirith. She could tell a man of Belfalas from a man of Ringló Vale by the difference in his stride – as if he had sand or short grass beneath his feet, instead of the rock and scree of a high pasture – and the way he wore his weapons strapped to his back. She knew every group of laborers from the docks, what time they left off hanging about the Harlond to invade the taverns of the lower city, how many of them went home drunk each night and how many sober. Always a keen observer, Gil had honed that skill to a fine degree in her boredom and frustration.

In truth, she had little else to fill her time. Boromir had been gone for close on a month, and Gil was beginning to regret her choice not to go with him. If a day alone in the Citadel had been difficult for her, a month was intolerable. Between Lord Taleris' open hostility, Prince Imrahil's cautious distance, and her own sense of uselessness, she found her livery chafing and her days wearisome. 

A fortnight after Boromir's departure, she had gone to Ioreth and begged to be allowed to resume her duties in the Houses of Healing. Ioreth had laughed outright, until she realized that Gil was in earnest, then she had scolded her and sent her packing back to the Citadel, her ears burning. That door, it seemed, was closed to Gil forever. She was an educated woman, now. Lifted too far above her old station to dream of soiling her hands at such labor again. That her new station was a burden to her did not matter in the eyes of her adoptive mother.

The Chamberlain and other squires agreed with Ioreth. They looked askance at her, when she asked for work to keep her hands busy. The squires envied her her freedom, not understanding that a woman in boy's clothing, alone among peers who were not true peers at all, had no use for freedom. The Chamberlain shuddered at the thought of a squire – and not just any squire, but the Steward's personal, hand-picked squire – doing menial labor meant for servants. The idea did not suit his notions of propriety and seriously upset his ordered world. He had made a place for Gil in that world, though she in herself represented a violation of order, and he expected her to stay in it.

The sight of that Rider spurring his exhausted mount toward the city drove all thought of boredom from Gil's mind and filled her with an unwonted excitement. Boromir was in Rohan, and a messenger from that land must needs bring news of him. She dared not hope that it was news of his return the Rider carried, but any word, however brief, would be a solace to her. 

When the Rider, his mount being led off to the stables by a groom, passed into the shadow of the Seventh gate, Gil climbed down from the embrasure at last and allowed herself to shed some of her decorum. She hurried from the chamber, pausing to lock it behind her, and bounded down the stairs. As she approached the first floor of the Tower, she slowed her headlong pace, straightened her garments, and schooled her features into their usual wooden impassivity.

She could hear the clatter of booted feet on the flagstones and knew that the Rider was already inside the Citadel. A guardsman spoke.

"The Prince is in council and may not be disturbed."

"My errand cannot be delayed," the newcomer said, in accents much like the Lady Éowyn's.

"His deputy will receive you. Come this way, I pray you."

Gil clenched her teeth to hold back a protest and withdrew a few steps up the curve of the stairway so the two men would not see her. She had no right to interfere. Prince Imrahil had given Taleris leave to resume his duties as deputy to the Crown, in a bid to allay the old Lord's suspicions and win his confidence, so the guardsman did no more than his duty in taking the Rider to Taleris. The Prince, who was as much the skilled campaigner as Boromir and a good deal subtler in his methods, had affected shock and dismay at his kinsman's orders, reversed them without hesitation, and secretly set a veritable army of pages, servants and secretaries to track every scrap of parchment that fell into Taleris' hands. 

Since that time, no whisper of trouble had reached the Prince or his trusted lieutenants. Taleris had not set a foot wrong. But Gil was in no mood for shadowed plots or trickery this day. She wanted to know what the Rider carried in his message pouch, and she wanted to know now.

When the guardsman had returned to his post and a page had led the Rider away to another part of the Tower, Gil ventured down the last few steps to the first floor. She hesitated in the middle of the corridor, her face hard with nervousness and her hands tugging unconsciously at the hem of her surcote. Finally, she pried her feet up from the floor and moved toward the open door of Lord Taleris' office.

He sat behind his cluttered desk, elbows propped on its top, a roll of parchment in his hands. He did not hear Gil approach, so intent was he on what he read, and Gil had a moment to study his face. What she saw there made her throat go dry. Lord Taleris was afraid.

She tapped a knuckle lightly on the door, and his head snapped up violently. Dark, furious eyes fixed on her. His mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust.

"Out!" he snarled. "_Out!_"

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but I saw the Rider and hoped…"

"Get out of my sight, you filthy beggar's by-blow, or I will have you whipped from the city at the tail of a cart!"

Gil knew that he would not dare touch her, but the raw hatred in his eyes struck her a physical blow, and she quailed before it. She took a step back, her mouth hanging open, her eyes on the parchment in his hands. With a hiss of rage, he dropped the letter and snatched up a heavy silver inkwell, drawing back his hand to throw it. Gil turned and ran.

She did not think about where she was going, just ran as fast as her legs would carry her, until she came to a halt in an upper corridor. Her entire body was shaking in reaction, the breath sobbing in her lungs. Leaning her forehead against the cold stone of the wall, she closed her eyes and fought to regain her composure. 

"Gil?"

The soft voice jerked her upright in surprise and set her heart pounding afresh.

"Are you ill?"

She looked at the young page in bemusement. "Nay." Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, she frowned down at him and asked, "What do you here?"

He gave her a surprised look and gestured toward the door beside him. "I wait upon the Prince."

Only then did Gil recognize the corridor in which she stood and the door that faced her. She had run to Lord Elfstone's study, to the room where she and Boromir always came when they had a problem to unravel. And Imrahil was here before her. Hope flashed through her, and she stepped toward the door, her hand coming up to knock.

"Is he alone?"

"Nay. Men from Anfalas and Ethir Anduin are with him."

The war. Gil's hand fell to her side again, and she turned away, her shoulders slumping fractionally. Of course, she could not interrupt the Prince's war council with a complaint that Taleris would not let her read a letter. 

"He left orders that none disturb them," the page added, diffidently.

She nodded, thinking to herself that Taleris could not keep the letter a secret for long. Too many knew of its arrival, including Gil, and he must eventually give it into Imrahil's hands. Gil would simply have to swallow her impatience and wait. She made as if to leave, but then thought better of it and turned back to the page.

"How long has my lord Prince been in council?"

"Since before the trumpets blew at midday. Two hours, at the least."

"And you have not moved in all that time." The page shrugged and grinned shyly at her. "Fine lords often forget that their young pages need to eat. Get you to the lower halls and your luncheon. I will wait upon the Prince in your place."

The boy's eyes widened. "But…"

"Off with you. He will not be angry, I give you my word."

"The Chamberlain…?"

"Go," she growled, with mock ferocity.

The page gave a startled laugh, then ducked his head and sprinted off down the hallway, relieved to be free of his tedious duties for a time. Gil stepped up to his place by the wall, drew her heels together, straightened her back, and waited.

When Prince Imrahil came out of the room more than an hour later, a pair of lesser lords on his heels, he looked surprised to find Gil standing stiffly in attendance beside the door. He halted and fixed a questioning gaze on her. Gil bowed to him and to the other noblemen.

"My lord Prince," she said in her most wooden tones, "I beg leave to speak with you."

Imrahil considered this request for a moment, then waved the other lords off and opened the door for Gil to pass through it ahead of him. The Prince could never seem to decide whether she was a lady or a squire, to be treated with deference or brisk authority. Today, he settled for slightly avuncular courtesy.

"Have you taken up a page's duties now, Gil?" he asked, shutting the door.

Gil instantly dropped her formal manner and turned dark, anxious eyes on the Prince. "A Rider has come from Rohan. He gave a letter to Lord Taleris."

Imrahil's gaze turned wary. "That is as it should be."

"I know it. I do not question your wisdom in this or in anything, my lord. 'Tis only…"

"Out with it, girl."

She ignored the note of irritation in his voice and said, anxiously, "I fear some ill news! The Rider drove his horse nearly to foundering in his haste to reach the city, and he spoke to the guard of an urgent message. When I approached Lord Taleris…"

Imrahil shot her a swift, searching look that brought a flush of chagrin to her cheeks.

"I wanted only to ask him for news of my lord Boromir. I meant no disrespect."

"And did he give you news?"

Her flush deepened and her mouth tightened into a frown. "Nay. He threatened to whip me at the cart's tail if I troubled him further."

"You were rash to approach him, and there was no need. Lord Taleris will bring _me_ what news he deems important."

Gil drew herself up to her full, stiff, dignified height and said, flatly, "Of course, my lord Prince. I beg your pardon."

He eyed her for a moment, no hint of his thoughts in his face, then said, "This messenger rode in haste, you say."

"Aye, lord. Great haste."

"Mayhap there is trouble in Rohan." Gil said naught and stared rigidly in front of her. "Mayhap I should see the letter for myself."

Turning abruptly on his heel, he strode to the door, snapping, "Come, Gil."

They found Taleris still seated at his desk, still holding the letter in his hands, staring past it without seeing the words on the page. He started up at the sound of Imrahil's crisp steps, almost leaping from his chair.

"My Prince!" he exclaimed, as though the words had been jerked forcibly out of him.

"Taleris." Imrahil crossed to the desk and planted himself opposite the other man. He did not signal for Taleris to resume his seat. "What news from Éomer King?"

Taleris' eyes flicked to Gil, where she stood just inside the doorway, and the murderous rage in them was palpable. "The girl ran to you?" he demanded, fists clenching. "No doubt with tales of my treachery and double-dealing?"

Imrahil's brows rose. "There is a letter, is there not? Carried by messenger from Rohan?"

"Aye…"

"Then I see on treachery or double-dealing, on either side. What says our most noble friend?"

"Naught that warranted intruding upon your council, my lord."

Imrahil accepted this without a blink and asked, mildly, "And what of our wandering Steward?"

Taleris' forced chuckle grated upon Gil's nerves and sent a prickle of alarm over her scalp. "Wandering, indeed. He has taken himself off to Dunland, on what errand none but he can guess, and taken a party of Rohirrim with him. I cannot but wonder that he has gone so far afield at such a time, with the King away and the Haradrim massing upon our borders."

"Ah." Imrahil smiled wistfully at Taleris. "My kinsman was ever impatient of restraint."

"And careless of Gondor's weal."

Imrahil's face fell suddenly still, a film of ice forming in his grey eyes even as they gazed straight into Taleris'. When he spoke, his voice was dangerously soft. "So you have whispered to me time and again, old friend, but always behind your hand, afraid that others might hear." His voice hardened. "Always without proof. Have you proof now of his neglect, that you speak of it so openly, or is this naught but another baseless accusation?"

Nettled, Taleris snatched up the roll of parchment and brandished it under Imrahil's nose. "Is this not proof enough of his carelessness, if not outright neglect?"

"How can I say, when I have not seen it?" Taleris froze, and the Prince held out his hand. "Give it me, and I will judge for myself."

Taleris licked his lips nervously, eyeing the Prince as though he were a wild beast about to pounce on its prey. Very slowly, he laid the parchment across Imrahil's open palm. As he pulled his own hand away, he began to mutter in a rapid, blustering way, "You gave orders that you were not to be disturbed, and dire though the news is, there is naught that you could do in the hour lost to mend matters."

But Imrahil paid him no heed. He stood with the scroll in his hands, his eyes flying over the penned lines and growing wider with every moment, a look of dawning horror suffusing his face.

"The war on our borders must come first," Taleris went on, "left as we are to fight without King or Steward…"

"My lord?" Gil ventured, her low voice breaking into Taleris' excuses and drawing Imrahil's gaze to her. "What news of lord Boromir?"

She saw a flash of something that might have been pity in his eyes, then he ground out, "Boromir is lost. Taken by Orcs, they fear, and all his escort with him."

In that instant, Gil felt her body turned to stone. Her feet were rooted to the floor, no longer connected to her mind and will, her hands frozen at her sides and her face a bloodless, inhuman mask that would crumple into ruin at a touch. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound issued from it.

The pity in Imrahil's eyes deepened, then he looked away, averting his eyes from her wounded face. "Éomer has sent Riders into Dunland to search for him, together with a party of Dwarves. And Legolas rides for the King."

"The King dallies in the land of the Halflings," Taleris said. "Even the Elf cannot find him in time…"

"You _cur!!_" Gil howled, tearing herself out of her horrified trance and whirling on Taleris. "_You filthy, treacherous cur!_"

"Gil!" Imrahil called, sharply, but she did not hear.

"You did this to him! You _murdered_ him!" Her slight frame began to vibrate with the force of her rage, and her hands knotted into fists as she railed, "I know what you are and what you have done! I hear every lying whisper you utter, every calumny on my lord's honor, and I promise you, I swear by spotless name of Boromir of Gondor that I will make you _pay!_"

"The wretch has run mad!" Taleris snarled, his face flushing hotly.

"I will not rest until I see your traitorous head on the flagstones at my feet! You are a _coward! Coward! Assassin!_" She took a step toward him and her hands came up, threateningly."_Filthy, lying, sneaking bas…_"

Imrahil caught her by the arm and spun her around, delivering a ringing slap to her cheek that jolted her out of her screaming frenzy and shocked her into stillness. "Enough! Be still!" he snapped.

Taleris stepped abruptly around his table and headed for the door, bellowing, "Guard! Guard!"

"You, too, will be still, my lord," Imrahil said, coldly, halting the other man in his tracks. 

"I will have that creature punished! Whipped raw and cast from the city!"

"_Silence!_" Still gripping Gil's arm in iron fingers, Imrahil flicked his free hand at Taleris and motioned him back to his place at the desk. Taleris obeyed, stiffly, his head tilted arrogantly and his mouth hard with suppressed fury. "You will not speak, unless it be to answer my questions. Do you understand?"

Taleris opened his mouth to protest, but a glance from Imrahil forestalled him. Planting his feet wide and clasping his hands behind his back, he nodded once, curtly. Then he glared at Gil as though he could flay her with his eyes.

"Did you think to keep word of Boromir's loss from me?" Imrahil demanded.

"I did not."

"Why then did you not send word at once?"

"There was naught to be done. What purpose could it serve to delay a war council for a private tragedy?" The Prince's eyes narrowed, and Taleris broke off. After a moment of charged silence, he sighed and let some of the stiffness drain from his posture. "There was another reason, I grant you. I wanted time to consider what this turn of events might mean for Gondor. What… good might be drawn from it."

Gil bared her teeth in a snarl and would have taken a step toward Taleris had Imrahil's fingers not bitten into her arm in warning.

Taleris shot a veiled glance at Imrahil, trying to read his expression, then continued, "Not all of Gondor will mourn the Steward's loss."

"_You_ will not. So much is clear."

"Nay." Taleris swallowed nervously. "I will not. And there was a time when you felt as I do, my Prince."

"I was wrong," Imrahil murmured, then again, furiously, "_I was wrong!_"

Their eyes locked, and it seemed as though they wrestled with each other, each striving to bend the other to his will. Finally, Taleris dropped his gaze. He waited in silence for some sign from Imrahil.

The Prince stirred and let go Gil's arm. Twisting the letter between his hands in an unconscious show of disquiet, he said, "If I find that you have had aught to do with Boromir's disappearance…"

Taleris' eyes widened. "I have not! I swear it!"

"That will suffice, for the present."

"He lies!" Gil cried, alarmed at Imrahil's tame acceptance of the traitor's words. "Remember what lord Boromir…"

"Gil!" he said, warningly, then to Taleris he added, "I have no reason to doubt your word, but if I find that you have lied to me, I will show you no mercy. Do you understand?"

Taleris nodded. Imrahil turned for the door, pulling Gil with him, but she hung back, protesting, "My lord Prince!"

"Enough, girl. Hold your tongue." He forced her roughly out the door and toward the Tower stairs, then he stopped to confront her squarely. "You do me and your lord no service to fly at Taleris like a madwoman. Trust me, Gil. Leave Taleris to me."

"He has done the Steward some violence. I am certain of it."

"Be as certain as you like, but _leave him to me_. An you cannot, I will have no choice but to punish you. I can overlook such behavior once, when the provocation is great, but not a second time."

Gil turned a wooden, emotionless face on the Prince that could ill conceal the turmoil beneath. "As you will, my lord."

His lips tightened for a moment then relaxed into sadness, and he said, gruffly, "Do not despair of Boromir. I will not, until they bring back his lifeless body as proof that he is gone."

Tears thickened Gil's throat, making speech impossible, but she nodded agreement. 

He jerked his head toward the stairs. "Get you gone. I will summon you if I hear aught else."

Gil did not wait for a second urging, but turned and fled up the stairs toward Boromir's chambers. The familiar rooms were peaceful and warm in the afternoon sunlight, a quiet haven where Gil could surround herself with the presence of her lord, even in his absence, but they seemed suddenly cold and desolate. Every object that reminded her of Boromir served only to deepen her pain at the thought that she might never see him in this chamber again. How long would his presence linger here? What peace or solace would she find, then, with Boromir gone and his protection stripped from her forever?

She stood in the middle of the room, a small and broken figure, clutching her arms about her body as if she could smother the agony of loss in her embrace. Tears would not come. Gil had long since forgotten how to weep, if in truth she had ever learned, and desperately as she wanted to ease the pressure in her breast with tears she could not.

Slowly, she sank to her knees upon the thick carpet – the carpet that had muffled his booted tread and helped to dull the memory of tramping Orc-feet – and closed her eyes. She tried to summon an image of Boromir riding Fedranth through the gates of the city, with Lord Elfstone beside him and Master Legolas close behind, an image of his homecoming. But all she could see was Boromir's body lying broken on the rocks, with an Orc blade in his back. The image of his death.

*** *** ***

"The flesh is sound and the wound dry." Uglúk poked experimentally at the ugly slash in Boromir's leg, making the Man jump nearly a handspan from the floor. Then he bent close to sniff at it, his hot breath pouring over Boromir's skin. "The smell of corruption is gone."

Boromir, roused from a fitful sleep by the arrival of his orcish healer, then mangled by those iron-hard hands until his head spun and his body shivered in reaction, was in no mood to express gratitude. He let his head fall back against the rough pillow and grunted, sourly, "How can you tell in this reeking pit?"

Uglúk snorted in disgust. "You bleat about the stink, but you made yourself right at home, for all that. Had a drink and a bit of a rest, eh? All very cozy."

The thought of his imprisonment in an Orc den as cozy was so ridiculous to Boromir that he could not help laughing at it. Uglúk, his own sense of humor coming to the fore, chuckled with him. But in the next instant, he pinched the meat of Boromir's thigh, just below the wound, between two enormous claws and squeezed until the nails nearly broke the skin. A tremor of pain shook Boromir, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to hold back a cry.

"You have some of my best work in you – not that you'll thank me for it."

"Should I?" Boromir choked out. 

"You might show old Uglúk a bit of gratitude for saving your miserable life. _Twice_."

"Three times," Boromir amended. "You carried me out of the dungeons and saved me from drowning."

The Orc chuckled again. "That's not how the Dunlanders tell it, _my lord Steward_."

Boromir felt shock grip him in a crushing fist, his mind going utterly blank and his innards freezing with dread. Then, in the next breath, he rolled onto his back and levered himself stiffly up onto his elbows. His head swam sickeningly, unused as he was to moving at all, much less to supporting his own weight and holding his head upright. He was still frightfully weak – much more so than he had thought – and only the lash of his pride kept him from collapsing ignominiously back onto his filthy, lumpy pillow. He took a careful breath, fighting to swallow his unruly stomach, and licked his suddenly dry lips.

"What did you call me?" he rasped out.

"Did you think I wouldn't puzzle it out?" Uglúk retorted, caustic humor in his voice. "Took me a while, I admit. I've heard the tales often enough, but all that rot about you calling the Tree Demons out of the forest to crush the Wizard and carry you off in triumph threw me off the scent. If that whelp of yours hadn't squeaked…"

"Borlas?" Boromir struggled to sit up, but he could not get his hands under him properly. Uglúk's hand fastened in the front of his shirt and, with a casual tug, he pulled the smaller Man upright. Boromir let his head fall forward, his hair trailing over his filthy, sweat-dampened face, and breathed hard to calm the roiling sickness in him. 

When he could speak without gasping, Boromir demanded, harshly, "Did you harm the boy?"

"I do what I like with my slaves," the Orc growled. "There's no Wizard to order us about anymore. Nor no Steward, either," he added, significantly.

"He is naught but a child."

Uglúk smacked his lips obscenely. "I like 'em small and tender."

Boromir ducked his head again, fighting for calm and control, while the Orc busied himself dressing and bandaging the wound. The pain of it helped to clear Boromir's head and bring his thoughts into focus. He realized, all too well, that he could do naught to disabuse Uglúk of the belief that he was Steward of Gondor – true as it was – nor to protect Borlas. 

Uglúk tied a bandage tightly about Boromir's leg and sat back on his haunches, grunting in satisfaction. With a palpable effort, Boromir straightened his shoulders and lifted his head, pulling pride and dignity about him like a fine cloak. The Star of the Dúnedain lay against his breast, warmed by his body, lending him courage.

"What will you do now, Uglúk?" he asked. "Now that you know you have the Steward of Gondor chained to your wall?"

Uglúk chuckled. "Always the good little soldier."

Boromir refused to react to this condescending form of address. He kept his face calm and said, evenly, "Will you try to ransom me? Or is killing me all the reward you seek?"

"Is that all you can talk about?" the Orc demanded. "Your death?"

Boromir scowled at him. "What do you expect, when I lie here, hour after hour, picturing my body stewing in your pot, awaiting a sword through my throat?"

"Not the throat. That's too quick for an Orc-killer like you."

Boromir shut his mouth with a snap, swallowed, and said, "My point exactly."

Uglúk sighed. Boromir did not ever remember hearing an Orc sigh before, or not in quite that way. He sounded genuinely discouraged. "I didn't save your life so I could listen to you whine."

"Why did you?" he asked, real curiosity warring with the distrust and loathing in him.

"I told you. I like you, little soldier."

"Enough to let me go?" Boromir ventured.

Uglúk gave a great roar of laughter and smacked Boromir on the shoulder, sending him sprawling on the floor. Still laughing, Uglúk grabbed him by the arms, hoisted him up, and dragged him across the floor. Boromir found himself, gasping from pain and the suddenness of the change, sitting upright against the wall. Then Uglúk sat down on the floor beside him, with a clatter of weaponry against stone and the scrape of thick leather. The Orc was close enough that Boromir could feel his warmth on his thinly-clad body.

"You make me laugh," Uglúk pointed out, needlessly, "and you're not a sniveling coward. You're not like the other whiteskins I've met."

"You probably ate them before you got to know them properly."

"Very likely."

Something about the bland tone of the Orc's voice struck Boromir as funny. He refused to laugh aloud and betray himself to Uglúk, but he could not hide the smile that twitched at his lips. "In truth, I must admit that you are not like the other Orcs I have met," he said, soberly.

"You killed them before they could get a word out," Uglúk retorted.

"Doubtless I did."

With a lightning change in mood, Uglúk growled, harshly, "Don't get any fancy ideas, _tark_! It's still the stewpot for you!"

"I thought we were not going to talk about that," Boromir said.

"Gah!" Uglúk spat on the floor. "Go all noble and haughty on me, like you were some kind of cursed princeling…"

"I am."

"Eh?" Surprise and palpable interest banished the Orc's sour temper and made him lean closer to his prisoner. "What's that?"

"I am a Prince. Did the Dunlendings not tell you that part of the tale?"

"Prince of what?" Uglúk asked.

"Anórien."

The Orc pondered this for a moment, then stated, "The mountains to the South."

"Aye."

"There are no Orc burrows under those peaks."

"That is but one of many beauties they boast."

Uglúk gave another crack of laughter. "One night, when the Tree Demons are napping, we'll leg it across the grasslands and move into those pretty mountains of yours."

"You will find the Dwarves there before you."

"Dwarves, eh?" He grunted something in orcish, then said, "The lads will enjoy killing Dwarves for a change."

If Boromir had doubted for a moment that no Orc band could make it alive across the Gap of Rohan or past the garrison at Helm's Deep, he would have felt some remorse at having unleashed Uglúk upon Gimli and the Dwarves of Aglarond. But there seemed little danger that the Uruk-hai would ever attempt such a raid, much less succeed in it. Uglúk was baiting him for his own amusement.

Was that truly why Uglúk had kept him alive? Boromir wondered. Was he so eager for amusing company that he would save the life of a mere Man – and one who had killed one of his Uruks, defied him and escaped his vengeance – so that he could sit and talk with him? The idea was, on the face of it, preposterous. But here he was, sitting at Boromir's side, talking of princedoms, when he might have been honing his weapons for another raid into Dunland or spilling Boromir's entrails on the floor of the cavern. 

Abruptly, Boromir decided to put his theory to the test, to see just how long Uglúk would remain with him and how much he would say. "How many of my men are left?" he asked.

"What's that to you? Playing the Lord Steward again, are you?"

"They are my… lads," Boromir answered, "and my concern, just as your Uruks are yours."

"Four Men and the brat," Uglúk growled.

Four only. Another had died, then, while he was insensible. Swallowing to clear the roughness from his throat, he asked, "Where are they now?"

"Working. Earning their bread."

"Building barricades to keep out the mountain orcs?"

"I've got better work for them. Work I can't trust to my own lads, down in the Wizard's caves." Uglúk settled more comfortably onto the floor, as he unconsciously settled into the conversation. "They're stout fellows, the lot of them, but they've got grabbing fingers and an eye for shiny things. There are tasks better suited to slaves than to greedy soldiers."

"You do not want them stealing your plunder," Boromir observed, dryly.

"Plunder!" Uglúk's scorn was magnificent. "I have all the _plunder_ I need, right here. Swag from the Wizard's caves, from prisoners, from the maggots who lugged it out of Moria." Heaving himself to his feet, Uglúk strode to one side of the cave. A moment later, Boromir heard the clang and slither of metal sliding on metal, then a few large objects rang against the floor. "Blades and gear enough for an army of Uruks! Leather, iron, bronze, steel. There's even a few pieces of Moria Silver in here." 

He crossed to another spot and slammed something made of wood against the stone wall – the lid of a chest, to judge by his next words. "Pretty, shiny stones. Trinkets. Coin. Wizard's toys and Men's treasures. Swag to warm the heart of any Orc – or set him to gutting his fellows for a handful. And what use is it?"

"Trade," Boromir answered, promptly. "Men value these things. They will trade weapons and tools for your shiny trinkets."

"Men don't trade with Orcs. They kill them." Uglúk uttered a grating laugh. "And for good reason. _We_ kill _them_. I'd kill that long-eyed king of yours in a trice, and stick his royal head on a spear for crows to peck at. Don't think I wouldn't."

"Even if he made a treaty with you?"

The Orc laughed again, more sourly still. "I don't want a treaty. I want _tarks _to work in my tunnels and fill my belly. And who knows? Maybe I'll get all the Man-flesh I can eat, soon enough. Old Uglúk is no fool. He has ways of getting what he wants."

"You cannot hope to fight the armies of Men with your small band of Uruks, however warlike they may be. Aragorn would slaughter you all in the first battle and burn your corpses before your own gates."

"Or maybe your little king would die on my spear and your armies burn in _Uglúk's_ fire!"

Boromir almost laughed, then he had a flash of memory: blasts of heat and noise in the night, fire singing his flesh, men screaming and falling around him. Uglúk's fire, he wondered, or Saruman's? The pits of Isengard had reeked of smoke and fumes, while Merry's tales of the battle included gouts of liquid fire that leapt into the sky and set Ents burning like living torches.

His thoughts must have shown in his face, for Uglúk strode to yet another part of the cave and slapped his hand down on some solid object. Boromir frowned, hunting for an image or memory that would account for the vaguely familiar, thick yet faintly hollow sound made by the Orc's blow.

"I told you I keep the secrets of the Wizard's Vale."

"What is it?" Boromir asked, curious in spite of himself.

"Black powder. Saruman made it by the barrel full and hid it away in the caves above the Vale. Safe from Orcs and the like," Uglúk finished, with a hoarse chuckle.

"I have never heard of this black powder."

"It burns at the touch of flame – burns hot and fast. Put it in a flask or barrel and it will burst outward in a rush of white-hot flame. Use enough of it, and you could blow the top off of Redhorn."

"This is what Saruman used in his caverns to power the great engines?"

"That and the fire liquid. It looks like water, but it burns even hotter than the powder. I have seen him pour that into the maw of a machine and make it spit fire into the sky." He chuckled yet again. "I found a cave stuffed full of it. Tried to use it the way we do the powder, in a flask, to make throwing fire. But one of those cursed fools _drank_ it. I made the rest sit there and watch him die, to teach them not to mess with the Wizard's magic, but you can't be sure with that lot. Maybe they understand; maybe not. So I put the casks back and sealed the cave again."

"Dúrbhak used the throwing fire when he attacked my company."

"Aye. Cut you down without a fight, it did."

"It could not save Saruman from the wrath of those he had betrayed."

Uglúk snorted. "The old buzzard valued his hide more than victory. Packed up and ran off, he did, leaving Isengard to the Tree Demons and the Uruk-hai to rot. Could have paid you all out, if he'd come to old Uglúk and asked for my help! I have his army, his weapons, even enough of his magic blasting powder to bring down the walls of your White City!" He spat noisily onto the floor, then crossed to where Boromir sat and hunkered down beside him. Dropping his voice to rasping whisper that Boromir supposed was meant to be conspiratorial, he added, "It could still happen. I don't tell the lads – they're happy so long as they have food and drink enough and plenty to gripe about – but all this, the weapons and the powder, I keep against the Wizard's return."

Boromir weighed his words, hearing the thread of hope running through them and the wistful note in the Orc's harsh voice. Unlike his "lads", Boromir realized, Uglúk was not content with his life beneath the Misty Mountains. He craved more than the routine business of provisioning his troops and defending his borders. He craved the bloodlust of battle and the clash of armies – as did any true soldier.

For the briefest of moments, Boromir hesitated to dash his hopes. He thought of this creature of wit and intelligence – Orc though he might be – trapped in these foul tunnels, surrounded by the ever-growing, ever-strengthening world of Men, and he knew a certain sympathy for his plight. Then the moment past, burned away in the pain from his wounded leg and shackled wrists, and he said, "Saruman is dead."

Uglúk abruptly sat back on his heels. "Dead? How dead? Who would dare to slay a Wizard?"

"He died at the hand of his own servant, Wormtongue."

The Orc pondered this in silence for what felt to Boromir like an eternity. Then he growled, harshly, "Tell me the whole tale."

So Boromir told him, precisely as Merry had told it to him by letter four years ago: how Saruman had fled to the Shire and there sought to enslave the Halflings; how the four travelers had returned to rally their kindred and drive the Wizard's evil from their lands; and how Wormtongue had cut down his master in a final, desperate burst of rage, as they turned their steps away from Hobbiton and the Shire. Throughout, Uglúk growled and muttered and cursed, but did not interrupt his tale. When he was done, the Orc favored him with a last, explosive curse, then he seemed to throw off his anger with his lingering hopes and mustered a sour laugh.

"So the Uruk-hai must fend for themselves, as usual. Gah!" He spat eloquently. "Wizards! Curse the lot of them!" He scratched himself noisily and added, "Perhaps we'll march on the White City without the Wizard to lead us and bring down your pretty walls in ruin."

"Do you have enough of Saruman's black powder to do it, think you?"

"Well, now," Uglúk's voice turned cagey, "I've never seen those walls, so I don't rightly know. What would you say, Steward? Could I bring them down?"

"I have not seen them in many years, either," Boromir said.

This struck Uglúk as exquisitely funny, and he favored Boromir with another bruising buffet to the shoulder. "Aye, but you remember. And who would know better than the Captain who has defended them so many times?"

"True." Boromir considered his question carefully, intent on quashing any ambition Uglúk might have of laying siege to Minas Tirith but knowing that any obvious exaggeration of the city's strength would be detected by the Orc and taken as an admission of weakness. "I know naught of your blasting powder's strength, but the armies of Sauron could not breach the walls. They assayed it with flame, iron and foul sorcery, to no avail."

"They broke the gates."

"Aye, but new gates the Dwarves wrought, of _mithril_ and steel, that no power in Middle-earth might break."

The Orc grunted thoughtfully.

"Do you, in truth, hope to sack the White City?" Boromir asked.

"And if I do, what concern is it of yours, whiteskin? You'll be orc-food by then."

"Tell me, Chieftain of the Uruk-hai, do you ever go to the upper slopes of the mountains and look down upon the Wizard's Vale, upon what the Ents have made of your home, and remember what it once was?"

Uglúk uttered a low, warning growl.

"Minas Tirith is my home, her people my kin. My flesh may go down the gullet of an Orc, my bones may lie forgotten upon the refuse pile in yon cavern, but still I will remember my home and weep for the soaring white walls and graceful towers that I will never see again. I will weep for the memory of her wide streets, her laughing children, her ringing trumpets and snapping banners, for the cries of seabirds upon the wind, for the lapping of the Great River against the pilings of the Harlond, for…"

"Gah!" snarled Uglúk, leaping to his feet. "Shut it, you miserable rat! I'll have no more of your maudlin babble!"

Boromir took a deep, steadying breath to calm his racing heart and quell the sudden desire to weep in earnest. He had begun talking of Minas Tirith to draw out the Orc on his plans, but even as the first words came to his lips, he felt his love and longing for his lost city well up in him and spill out of his mouth in words over which he had no control. He did not know why his memories of home had angered the Orc so greatly, and in that moment, he didn't care. The wrenching loss he felt at the certainty that he would never walk the streets of his home again drove all other thoughts from his mind and filled him with aching sorrow.

"Sentiment is weakness," Uglúk hissed, "and we Orcs have no such weakness! You whiteskins may rule Middle-earth for an Age, but you are weak. Weak! You will fail in the end. And when you have all gone to feed Uruk soldiers, we will pour out of our filthy holes and sweep over your lands! We don't need Wizards to lead us! We don't need the Red Eye! All we need is our own strength and a stout blade to hack through the puny necks of Men! Think on that while I spill your guts on the floor, Steward of Gondor. Weep for your whole, miserable, useless race!"

Then he turned on his heel and stalked out of the cave.

Boromir sat in silence for many minutes, letting Uglúk's final words wash over him without really penetrating his exhausted and overburdened mind. But slowly, as his own sense of loss and loneliness faded to a dull pain in the pit of his stomach, he turned his thoughts to the puzzle of Uglúk.

He had learned a great deal in the last hour, though not the things he had set out to learn. He still did not know what labor Uglúk had set for the Rohirrim or how he might aid them. He did not know how long he had to live, himself. And for all the various plans of attack Uglúk had tossed out, Boromir did not know which, if any, were genuine threats to his king and people. But he did have an inkling, however fantastic, of why the Orc chieftain had chosen to keep him alive, and he had gained a glimpse into Uglúk's nature that gave him much to ponder in his hours alone. 

That Uglúk might be lonely, bored and frustrated, that he might remember his days as Saruman's captain with fondness and wish for a return to the glory and ambition of that time, was a new and intriguing thought to a Man who had been raised on the certainty that Orcs were mere beasts. Cruel, stupid and wholly evil. Boromir did not doubt Uglúk's cruelty or the vileness of his heart, but he was most definitely not stupid, and with his intelligence came a subtlety of thought, a complexity of motive and desire, that defied everything Boromir had ever believed about the race of Orcs. 

He caught himself wondering if Uglúk might have the skill at strategy and warfare to pull off a raid on the White Mountains or a concerted attack on Rohan. That he might march on Gondor was absurd, if only because he could not reach it without first crossing either Rohan or Ithilien. But some smaller foe – the Men of Dunland, the Dwarves of Aglarond, mayhap even the Rohirrim themselves – might suffer greatly at the hands of the Uruk-hai before Aragorn could bring the armies of Gondor to their defense. Just a day ago, he would have laughed this idea to scorn, but now he admitted to doubt. And to fear.

Boromir was hungry and thirsty, weak with exhaustion, faintly sick from sitting upright for so long, and sore in every part of his body. He longed for a tankard of ale and a trencher full of roasted meat, such as he had enjoyed at Gimli's table, but he knew that he would find only lumpy porridge and a hunk of stale bread on the floor beside his mean pallet. Mayhap, when he woke again in another few hours, he would be hungry enough to choke down the porridge, but not now. Now, weariness and the desire to escape his tangled thoughts in sleep overpowered even his growling stomach.

He pushed himself stiffly away from the wall and attempted to shift his weight to one side. All he managed was to jar his injured leg and send himself pitching, limp and reeling from the pain, onto his right side. He lay on the floor, pressing his forehead into the cold stone to anchor himself in the shifting darkness, until his body would once more answer to his commands. Then he used his right leg and shoulder to push himself farther from the wall.

He found his pillow and crumpled cloak entirely by accident, and barely in time for him to curl up on them before his limbs ceased to function at all. He could not spread the cloak over himself, so he rolled onto it, using its thick wool to shield him somewhat from the cold of the stone beneath him. Then he dragged his pillow into place with his teeth and settled his head onto it gratefully. For the present, he did not even mind the stink of sheep, so tired was he. His thoughts were still churning uselessly at the problem of Uglúk and his own imminent death, when he sank into blessed unconsciousness.

**_To be continued…_**


	8. Cold Be Hand and Heart and Bone

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! I'd like to thank you all for being so patient about this chapter, and for all your reviews, comments, e-mails and support! A special HUGE thank you to Kathie and Jo for their invaluable help – with this chapter in particular and with everything. Without them, Boromir would probably stay stuck in that Orc den forever!

I am leaving on a long (and long overdue) vacation in a few weeks, so I'll be away from my computer for awhile. This means, I won't be answering e-mails and I won't be working on Chapter 9 (sorry guys! I _really _need a vacation!). But if you write to me before June 11, I promise I'll answer. And I'll start on the next chapter when I get home in July.

Enjoy!

-- Chevy

* * *

**Chapter 8: _Cold Be Hand and Heart and Bone_**

The deft touch of cruelly clawed fingers, the grate of orcish voices, the occasional burst of harsh laughter or curses – these things were now as familiar to Boromir, as much a part of his world, as the call of silver trumpets from the walls of the White City had once been. And in their own way, they imposed the same kind of order on his life, for Uglúk was a soldier and he lived by a soldier's routines. His world, the world in which Boromir of Gondor now dwelt, was as disciplined as any army camp.

As he slowly regained his strength and health, Boromir became increasingly aware of the rhythm of life in the orc den. He had no sunrise or sunset to mark the passage of a day, but he had the tramping of iron-shod feet in the tunnel as the Uruk-hai returned to their meal from their various duties, and he had Uglúk's visits to him, with food and medicine, at surprisingly regular intervals. The quiet hours when most of the Orcs were away he thought of as days, while the bouts of drinking and raucous laughter or fighting in the main cavern were the Orcs' evening revels. When they were done, they slept long and heavily. Uglúk often resorted to blows and curses to rouse them, kicking them so hard that Boromir could hear the impact of his heavy boots in their ribs even through the hide curtain.

Of the Riders he gleaned scant knowledge. They were gone all through the day, laboring in the tunnels, and most evenings did not return with their captors to the main cavern. When they did, the Orcs amused themselves with taunting and abusing them, often calling for a song then pelting the singer with refuse both actual and verbal. By listening to the voices he heard, Boromir learned that Éothain and his young kinsman, Éofal, still lived, along with two others whose voices he could not identify. Borlas was with them, he knew, for he could pick the boy's childish tones out of the loudest of orcish squabbles, but more than that he could not tell.

For himself, Boromir remained alone in the inner cave hour after cold, empty hour. Uglúk was his only company, and on those days when the Orc chieftain did not come to sit with him, Boromir felt strangely bereft. Whether because he had surrendered himself to the certainty of death, or because the loneliness of his existence began to tell on him, Boromir found his restraint crumbling.

He continued to trade insults with Uglúk, to fight his control and refuse to eat from the floor, even when light-headed with hunger, so long as the Orc remained with him. But once the preliminary sparring was done, he could sit for hours together, talking to the other creature of the world outside. They spoke of the Ring War and Boromir's role in it, of Saruman, of Gondor, of life beneath the Misty Mountains. Uglúk was, so far as Boromir could ascertain, as forthcoming as his prisoner. He said nothing of his plans for the future, choosing to taunt Boromir with possibilities and vague threats, but he spoke freely of past and present.

Boromir learned that the Rohirrim were currently working in one of Saruman's old storage caverns, sorting goods. Uglúk had found a huge cavern full of wine – barrels, jars, demijohns and skins of the stuff, of every description and vintage – all stored by the Wizard for his own enjoyment. The Men were laboring to move the bulk of this valuable plunder to a more secure location, known only to Uglúk and his trusted lieutenant, Dúrbhak, where it would be safe from the depredations of his soldiers. Always the canny commander, Uglúk planned to ration it out carefully, allowing the Uruk-hai just enough fine liquor to keep them docile without dulling their wits.

When Boromir asked after the Men by name, Uglúk shrugged him off with a grunt and a laugh, retorting that a slave was a slave, their names no concern of his. He never referred to Borlas by his name, either, though Boromir had used it often enough to be sure that Uglúk knew it, and Boromir caught himself wondering whether this was the crafty Orc's way of shutting pity or mercy out of his heart. Boromir, Steward of Gondor, had a name, and Boromir warranted personal care from his captor. The slaves laboring in the caverns were nameless fodder, as was 'the whelp' who spent his days tethered in the main cavern, awaiting his turn in the pot.

If Boromir could force Uglúk to think of them as individuals, with names and lives outside these grim tunnels, could he bring the Orc to recognize that they had worth beyond their value as food? Could he forestall their deaths, if only for a time? He pondered this question, even as he sat and talked with Uglúk of home by the hour.

Man and Orc both felt the irony inherent in this situation, and both knew that the other was holding back key facts about his people to protect them. But their enjoyment of the time spent talking to an equal was as evident as their caution. And slowly, insensibly, Boromir began to feel grateful to Uglúk, for his company and his forbearance in sparing Boromir the treatment meted out to his fellow prisoners.

When alone with his hunger, his misery and his bodily pain, Boromir's gratitude faltered. He remembered that he and his companions were naught but meat for Uglúk's pot, and that all the race of Men was threatened by this wily, ambitious, bloodthirsty creature. He turned his mind to escape but with no success. Then he fell into despair and lay cursing his own helplessness.

The process was ever the same. It began with the staunch determination to find a chink in Uglúk's armour and a way out of his stone and iron prison. And it ended with Boromir lying huddled on the filthy remains of his cloak, struggling to form images in his head of the beloved faces he had once known, clutching at them desperately for guidance, though he dared not cry out to them, while his heart wept within him and defeat gibbered at him from the darkness.

Faramir, Aragorn, Merry, Gil – these were the souls most closely bound to his, the voices that lit his world and warmed his chilled heart. Gil was the easiest to conjure up, for he had never seen her face and could picture it as he would, using her familiar dry, flat voice and light step as a frame on which to build her beauty – an entirely illusory beauty, but one that still touched him. Faramir, too, he could bring easily to life, though his brother's face often drifted from childhood to youth, from youth to manhood, until the features blurred and Boromir could not tell which Faramir it was he gazed upon.

Merry and Aragorn were the most difficult. He remembered them with an aching clarity, and their presence within him kept them ever alive in his mind, even when he could not draw their faces in sharp detail. He longed to reach out to them, to cry out his pain and despair and know that Merry's fiercely loyal, loving heart would hear him or that Aragorn, in his wisdom, would understand the depth of his despair and lend him the strength to withstand it. But he dared not touch them in such a way, lest his terrible need summon them to their doom. Or to failure and despair.

The Star of the Dúnedain hung about his neck, sometimes light and cool against his flesh, sometimes a great, burning weight. When the longing for the sound of his friends' voices was too agonizing for him to bear, he would roll onto his stomach, so the sharp gem dug into the skin of his breast, and he would wrap his thoughts about it as if it were Aragorn's hand and it could lead him from these dark tunnels. Then he would repeat the names of those he most loved, like a conjurer's spell, pouring his need of them into the stone, into the King's token that he wore as a sign of his dying hope, so that it would not touch that deep, sheltered place where Aragorn dwelt within him. He would lean on Aragorn; he would not call him. Though he died with Aragorn's name upon his lips, he would not call him.

* * *

The pounding of hooves brought Aragorn to his feet and out of the tent, his cup of wine forgotten on the ground. It was well past midnight, dark and chill, with the premature bite of winter on the wind. The sentries patrolling the edge of the camp and the men huddled close to the many small fires all wore their heaviest war cloaks swathed about their bodies, nearly concealing silver mail and polished swords. The largest fire burned just outside Aragorn's tent, casting its dancing, orange glow over the faces of the Dúnedain who stood guard at its entrance. Above their heads, the standard of King Elessar billowed and snapped upon the wind, its gems flickering eerily in the moving light.

Aragorn pulled his cloak about him as he stepped outside. The hoof beats came from the north, growing steadily louder, heralding the swift approach of a lone horseman. He did not go to meet the rider, but stood between the sentries, waiting. The very stones beneath his feet vibrated with the impact of the horse's hooves as it clattered to a halt, sliding on the loose scree, and the sentry called a challenge.

"I ride in search of King Elessar, on urgent business!" Aragorn stiffened at the sound of that familiar voice, and he stepped forward into the firelight. "I am Legolas of Henneth Annûn, and I charge you in the King's name, give me leave to pass!"

The sentry spoke and the hoof beats started again, threading a path through scattered tents and fires. A moment later, Arod trotted up to the fire and came to an abrupt stop. Legolas leapt nimbly from his back and gave the animal a caress upon the nose as he strode past, but his eyes never shifted from Aragorn's face.

The King stepped forward to meet him, clasping both his arms in welcome, then pulling him into a swift embrace.

"Legolas! Well met, my friend! But what brings you to me in such haste?"

Legolas stepped back, throwing his face into shadows that hid his expression from Aragorn. "Ill news, my lord. I have ridden with all speed from Rohan in search of you and dared not hope to find you so far south of Imladris. In truth, I thought you still in that realm and would have continued north had I not stumbled across your trail at the ford of Glanduin."

"We departed Rivendell a score of days ago." He felt Legolas stiffen and caught a wary glance from the corners of his eyes. "Come into my tent and rest yourself. You are tired and Arod is nearly spent. Come."

Legolas suffered himself to be thrust into the tent, where he found Arwen waiting for him with a goblet of mulled wine and a seat pulled close to the brazier. He accepted both with a courteous bow, but when Aragorn ducked through the opening a moment later, he sprang to his feet.

"Sit, I pray you," the King said, "and tell me what's amiss."

Legolas hesitated for a bare moment, his eyes glancing from Arwen to Aragorn, his face drawn and weary in a way Aragorn had never seen it before. Then he said, bluntly, "Boromir is lost."

The words struck Aragorn a physical blow, drawing a hiss of pain from him and draining the blood from his face. He instinctively looked to Arwen, seeing the same dreadful certainty in her face that he felt knotting his own innards. They both had known it, though neither had dared to voice that knowledge, since the night Aragorn had first awakened in Rivendell, sweating and terrified, from his nightmare.

It was Arwen who found her voice first. "What mean you by lost?" she asked, as she moved in close to Aragorn's side.

"We know not where he is. The Rohirrim search for him, even now, but we fear he was taken by Orcs."

"Orcs?" It seemed that the clinging horror of Aragorn's dream was upon him again, turning the world dark about him and cleaving his tongue to the roof of his mouth, so he could not ask the hundred questions that crowded into his mind. He reached for Arwen's hand, gripping it tightly for reassurance, and managed to choke out, "Orcs? How can this be?"

"He rode into Dunland with an escort of Rohirrim," Legolas said, his face full of pity and his eyes reflecting Aragorn's helpless agony back at him. "None returned save two horses, spent and terrified, with the marks of orcish claws upon them. Fedranth was one." Aragorn flinched, and Legolas broke off, one hand lifting toward him in concern, but the King gestured for him to go on.

"Éomer King will have sent search parties long since, and Gimli purposed to ride with them. I set out from Helm's Deep the night we learned of Boromir's loss, deeming it best to bring you word by the swiftest messenger, so this is all I know." His throat worked painfully for a moment, then he murmured, roughly, "I am sorry, Aragorn."

"Boromir." Very slowly and dazedly, as though his mind had no knowledge of what his body did, Aragorn sank onto his stool. His gaze fixed on the glowing brazier, but he saw nothing of its light. His mind was filled with the remembered images of a terrible march across the plains of Rohan, under the whips and blades of the Uruk-hai… Of Boromir lying draped over an Orc's shoulder, blood dripping from his savaged face… Of Gondor's proudest son pinned to the ground beneath Uglúk's boot as the Orc wielded his lash…

A great shudder went through him, and he buried his face in his hands to mask his reaction from the eyes of the Elves. "Boromir."

Voices outside the tent brought Aragorn's head up with a snap. He recoiled visibly from the threatened intrusion, but a moment later, he was on his feet, his own agony pushed to the back of his mind so that me might face the new arrivals with some vestige of calm.

Faramir ducked through the opening, Éowyn hard on his heels, and took a few swift steps toward the group beside the brazier. His eyes fell on Legolas, and his expression of alert curiosity changed to one of surprise.

"Legolas!" he exclaimed. "What means this? Why are you here?"

"I come from Rohan with a message for the King. And for you."

Faramir's face hardened with sudden understanding. "It has come, then," he said, his gaze turning instinctively to Aragorn, "the disaster that drove us from Imladris in such haste. Tell me, my king, I pray you. Do not keep it from me."

"I could not, if I would," Aragorn answered, his voice rough with strain. "This pain is as much yours as mine, and we must bear it together."

Understanding congealed into dread, and Faramir swayed on his feet. "My brother." His wife took an anxious step toward him, and Legolas put out a hand to catch and steady him, but Faramir ignored them both. "Sweet Valar, 'tis Boromir!"

"Sit you down, Faramir," Aragorn urged.

"It could be naught else." He spoke in measured tones, but his rapid breathing and the mounting flush in his cheeks warned Aragorn that his control would not long hold. "Had Boromir still ruled Gondor, whether in peace or war, you would not fear for her safety or ride so recklessly to her aid. It must be Boromir. I have feared it all this while. Feared and wondered and blamed myself for lacking the courage to ask… _What has happened to my brother?_"

"We do not know for certain, but we fear he is taken by Orcs."

"Orcs?" Faramir stared at the Elf in blank bewilderment. "Orcs? What madness is this? How came my brother to run afoul of Orcs, when he should be sitting in the Steward's chair, ruling Gondor from the safety of the Citadel? How came you to fail him so grievously, Legolas?"

"Legolas was not set as a guard upon Boromir," Aragorn reminded him, "but stayed in Gondor of his own choice, out of friendship."

The Elf looked grim as he countered, "I did fail him. I failed you all. And yet I know not how I might have prevented this mischance. I deemed the danger behind us, in Gondor, not to the west from whence we looked for your return, and so I guarded the wrong approach, shielded him from the wrong blow."

"Danger in Gondor?" Aragorn demanded, sharply. "From whom? Taleris?"

"We suspect as much but have no proof." The Elf threw him a harassed look. "I know not how much Boromir has told you in his letters, or even which of them has reached you by now. 'Tis too involved a tale be told in pieces."

"Then mayhap you should tell it all!" Aragorn sat down and motioned brusquely for the others to find seats as well. Only Éowyn did not avail herself of his offer. She remained standing, close at Faramir's back, as still and cold as a column of white marble. Aragorn vouchsafed her a brief, frowning glance and saw that her face had lost all color, all life, and her eyes burned strangely within it. A chill went down his back, as he looked at her and remembered the shieldmaiden of Rohan who had ridden to her own death in bitterness and despair.

Legolas launched into his tale without preamble, and Aragorn listened in growing amazement and frustration. Much of what Legolas told them he already knew, but much of it – the worst of it – had not yet come to his ear. At the mention of assassins, he lurched to his feet and began to pace the confines of the tent, impatience boiling within him. When Legolas explained Boromir's departure as a ruse to make Taleris think he was fleeing these assassins, he halted and uttered a snort of disgust but did not interrupt. He did not resume his pacing but stood with his eyes fixed on Legolas' face until the Elf had finished.

A long silence met the end of the tale. Then Aragorn asked, his voice harsh with strain, "Has the war begun?"

"I know not, my king," Legolas answered. "The last we heard from Prince Imrahil, the Haradrim were quiet, but if word of Boromir's disappearance should reach them…"

"They will deem Gondor weakened and attack."

"We reckoned this to be their plan from the first – to rob Gondor's armies of her beloved Captain and throw her rulers into turmoil."

Faramir cut in, forestalling Aragorn's response. "But if Boromir has fallen prey to Orcs, then it cannot be the work of the Haradrim. Orcs do not make alliances with Men." His hands clenched briefly, betraying his pent up anger, and he snapped, "And all of this brings us no closer to learning my brother's fate!"

"Peace, Faramir," Aragorn said.

Faramir sprang to his feet, his usual deference replaced by a seething urgency that fired his eyes and hardened his features until he looked quite shockingly like his father. "Tell me, my king, I pray you! What is it your dreams have told you that Legolas cannot? You have knowledge that surpasses his, I know it!"

"Nay, Faramir…" Aragorn felt suddenly immensely weary, as many sleepless nights and haunted days came to rest upon his shoulders.

"You _must_, or you would not have ridden for Gondor as if the hounds of Sauron snapped at your heels!"

"I have told you all – all for which I can find words."

"All for which you can find words?" It seemed, for a brief moment, as though Faramir might forget to whom he spoke all together and turn his helpless rage upon the King. But reason did not desert him, even in this extremity, and he remembered in time that Aragorn was no more to blame for Boromir's mischance than was Legolas. They were merely the messengers of disaster. He held himself in check with an effort and turned abruptly away from Aragorn's gaze, his head bowed. "I beg your pardon, my lord."

"Do not."

"I forget myself."

"You mourn your brother's loss, and for that, I cannot blame you. This is a pain we share," Aragorn reminded him softly, his voice heavy with grief.

"Aragorn?" At the sound of Legolas' voice, he turned reluctantly away from Faramir to meet the Elf's frowning, intent gaze. "What dreams are these of which you speak? Upon what errand did you leave Imladris so much sooner than purposed and by such a road?"

Aragorn sighed wearily and sank down onto his stool again. He bowed his head, shielding his face from the worried eyes fixed on him and giving himself a modicum of privacy in which to collect his thoughts. Then, he lifted his head to meet Legolas' eyes and said, "A score of nights ago, as I lay asleep in Imladris, a fell dream came to me. When I awoke, I remembered nothing of it save darkness and suffocating fear. I knew then that all was not well in Gondor."

"And so you rode south?"

Aragorn nodded. "We came by the shortest road, traveling with all the speed I could muster, but it was not enough. I felt it, always, the fear gibbering at my shoulder, urging me on and cursing at the least delay. I consulted the _palantír_, but my mind was in turmoil and I could not bend it to my will. The seeing stones make no allowances for mortal weakness. At last, nearly a week from Rivendell, I found calm and strength enough to wield it."

Legolas' face lit with hope. "What did you see?"

"Darkness. That was when I knew."

"Knew what? Aragorn, you will not tell me that Boromir is dead!"

"Nay, he is not. Boromir lives, but he is in grave peril. I cannot find him with the _palantír_ nor reach him in my nightmares, but I feel it gnawing at my vitals, awake or asleep, the certainty that he... suffers."

Legolas regarded him sorrowfully for a moment, then murmured, "You know that Boromir lives and that he calls to you, if only in your dreams. Can you not take some comfort in this?"

"Comfort in his suffering?" Aragorn demanded, harshly. Then he sighed and threw the Elf a look of apology.

Éowyn suddenly stirred, drawing all eyes to her for the first time. She stood very erect, her face blank and brittle with pain, her cheeks bloodless.

"My lord," she said, stiffly, "I know little of such matters and so may speak arrant foolishness, but if the lord Boromir calls to you, as Legolas terms it, can you not follow that call? Can you not let him guide you?"

"Nay, Lady, there is no cord stretched between us that I can simply follow to where Boromir waits. He is with me, 'tis true, but his presence is no more substantial than a candle flame. The smallest and most fragile of lights within me. It is…" He hesitated, unsure how to describe this thing that bound him to Boromir so completely, and yet so fleetingly, to someone who had never felt its like. "…an awareness, a small flicker of warmth that reminds me of the greater warmth that is my friend, my brother…"

Again, he broke off, the words escaping him as the pain of loss clutched at his heart afresh and wrenched a low cry from him. Arwen's hands tightened on his shoulders, and her voice sounded softly in his ear.

"He lives," she insisted. "He lives, and he will endure 'til you come for him. Has Boromir not proven himself the very hardiest of Men? Did he not come alive from the clutches of the Uruk-hai, the pits of Isengard and the torments of the White Hand?"

"He was not then alone," Aragorn said, very quietly.

"Nor is he alone, now. That small light, that fragile flame, burns in him as it does in you. It was born in the fires of Orthanc, when you faced the certainty of death together, and nothing short of death can extinguish it. Do not despair of him, Estel."

"Nay, I will not. But if my dreams are indeed touching his, if this roiling darkness and pain are truly all he knows, then he is mad or dying or in utter despair, and there is naught that I can do to help him this time."

Faramir answered him, his voice at once harsh and soothing, his words striking Aragorn like a dash of cold water in the face. "You can _find_ him. Are you not the most skilled hunter in all Middle-earth? Who better to track these foul Orcs and reclaim those they have taken than Strider, Chief of the Dúnedain, Ranger of the North? Find him, my king. Then will there be time enough to mend his hurts."

"Aye." Aragorn stared hard at him for another moment, then shook himself, physically throwing off the clinging shroud that mired his thoughts and weighted his limbs. "Aye, Faramir, you are right. The Dúnadan will find him."

He turned again to watch the ripples of heat rise from the glowing brazier, speaking as much to himself as to his companions, his words coming ever more quickly as his mind began to grapple with the realities of a forced march through hard country. "I cannot split our company again. It would leave the slower party too lightly defended. We must keep together, but we will lighten our load and take only that which is vital to our purpose. One tent only, for the women, and what foodstuffs cannot be found on our road. The men will carry their own arms and gear. I'll not have the packhorses weighted down with extra tack or weaponry. We must reach the Gap of Rohan within a fortnight."

"We may not have to go so far," Legolas said, bringing him up short.

He considered this, his eyes fastened on the coals as if he could see their road illuminated in the fire. "Ah. 'Tis Dunland we must search, not Rohan. But where? Where in all that vast emptiness did they waylay him?"

"This Gimli hoped to learn."

"Then our first task is to find Gimli and the Rohirrim."

"Riders were taken also?" Éowyn asked.

Aragorn glanced up at her and mentally flinched at the searing anguish in her gaze. "All his escort was lost. Five men."

Éowyn dropped her eyes, affording Aragorn some relief from their touch, and said, "My brother will not rest until he has found and freed them. Mayhap he has already brought Boromir safely to Edoras."

Faramir took her hand but kept his eyes averted from her face. His own face had aged dreadfully in the space of a few minutes, and though he had regained his usual grave, rational manner, Aragorn could sense the effort it cost him to maintain it. "We dare not hope it, my love. Aragorn would know, if Boromir were safe."

Éowyn looked from her husband to the King, and when Aragorn nodded fractionally, she spun abruptly on her heel and strode to the tent opening.

"Where are you going?" Faramir asked.

She spoke without turning. "To prepare for the morrow. We cannot carry all that we have with us on such a hunt. When do we set out, my lord?"

"Dawn," Aragorn said.

She nodded once, then she ducked out of the tent.

Aragorn glanced at Arwen, a question in his eyes, and she squeezed his hand in understanding.

"I will help Lady Éowyn with her packing," she said, then she followed swiftly and silently in the other woman's wake.

Faramir stared at the tent flap for a moment and mused, "I forget, at times, how much she values my brother. They rode to war together, and fought their way out of the shadows on the same battlefield." He sighed and dropped his eyes. A brief shudder of pain went through him. "Tell me again, my king, that there is hope? That Boromir lives?"

"He lives."

"Then he will wait for me. He will not fail me."

Choosing to ignore the hint of desperation in his words, Aragorn answered firmly, "Nay, he will not. Come, Faramir, Legolas, let us make our plans. We have much to do ere morning, if we are to ride with the new light."

* * *

So settled was he in the pattern of life in the Orc den, the change, when it came, struck Boromir a stunning blow. He sensed it first when the Uruk soldiers returned to the cavern for their usual meal. They were bellowing and laughing, their great voices nearly making the stone beneath him tremble, and from the cracking of their whips, he gathered that the Riders were with them. They herded their captives into the pen – an enclosure near the opening to Uglúk's cave that Boromir had never been free to investigate – then tossed something heavy onto the floor with a raucous shout of triumph and chorus of guffaws.

Borlas uttered a stricken cry, and Boromir suddenly understood. Another Rider had died. The Orcs were preparing for a feast.

Trapped as he was, Boromir could do naught but listen to the macabre celebration go forward. He had sat through many an evening of the Orcs' revelry, but never before knowing that the bones they gnawed had belonged to a comrade of his, a brother in arms. When one of the Uruks began throwing things into the pen, taunting the prisoners, Boromir felt his gorge rise at the thought of what those missiles were and how they must wound the surviving Riders.

The meal was served, the wine poured. The Orcs fell to with a will, while the Men filled Boromir's ears with low, sickened, tortured sounds that formed no words and yet carried more meaning to him than any speech. He could hear Borlas sobbing just outside the cave, and he was wracked with shame that he could do naught to ease the boy's suffering. Then one of the Orcs called for a song.

A chorus of agreement met this demand, and several of the Orcs began to shout for "the little one." For a moment, Boromir assumed that they meant Borlas, but then he heard the singer's voice and knew that he would at least be spared the horror of listening to the Orcs abuse the child. It was not Borlas they wanted.

Éofal, Éothain's young kinsman, had often favored the company with a song of an evening as they rode through Dunland. He had a pure, lilting voice that would do an Elf proud, and he loved poetry and lore above even the bow and lance. It was Éofal's voice that Boromir now heard, thick with unshed tears and rough from disuse, raised in a lament for his fallen comrade. And as he listened, Boromir felt a thrill of recognition go down his back. Éofal had sung this lament before. Boromir had heard it, though he had only the dimmest memory of it – a memory shrouded in pain, fever and forgetfulness.

A rude shout interrupted the Rider's song and Boromir's brooding. The Orcs did not like the song and called for another, but Éofal remained stubbornly silent. From the sounds filtering through the curtain, Boromir gathered that the mood among Uglúk's lads was turning ugly, and he wondered whether their chief would allow them to slay the singer and add him to the pot, or if he would step in before it went that far.

"What's this, lads?" Uglúk bellowed, suddenly, his great voice easily rising above the din. "You don't fancy the entertainment?"

"Skin it!" one Orc growled. "Cut it's tongue out and skin it!"

"Let us have some _real_ fun!" another shouted.

"I'll bet it squeals a pretty tune with a knife to its throat!"

"Now, now," Uglúk chided, "let's not waste the meat. If you're tired of playing with this one, pick another."

"Give us the little rat, there," Dúrbhak suggested.

"Gah! What do we want with that scrawny thing?" Ghasha snarled. "Give us the princeling!"

A roar of agreement met this sally, Ghasha's voice rising into a whine above it, demanding, "Fair's fair! Why do you get all the fun, Chief? He's ours, too. _We_ caught him!"

"All the swag's to be shared out evenly, eh, Chief?" Snaga interjected in his hissing, fawning voice. "The princeling is swag, same as this lot."

"And you'll get your share, when it's his turn in the pot," Uglúk retorted.

"We want our share _now!_" Ghasha howled, while his confederates stamped and hooted and shouted their encouragement. "Bring him out! Let us hear _him_ squeak!"

Uglúk stamped over to the archway, and Boromir heard his claws fasten in the stiff leather curtain. "Is that what you boys want?" he called. "A prince to play with?"

The answering noise was so loud that Boromir could hear no single word in it, only a wave of foul voices crashing over him, bearing him down to his doom. Uglúk laughed and flung back the curtain. In a moment, he stood over Boromir, the stink of the main cavern clinging to him and catching in the prisoner's throat as he bent low to growl,

"Humor them, little soldier, and you'll get no more than a few bruises. They're good lads, if you give 'em a bit of fun."

Boromir made no answer, only swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and waited for Uglúk's next move. The Orc crossed to the other side of the cave and began rooting among the weaponry piled there. A few minutes later, he crossed to Boromir again and began pounding on the metal ring in the wall, striking it from above and then below with some metal tool that rang painfully against it. Finally, Boromir heard the pin fall heavily to the floor, and he knew that he was free.

Uglúk twisted a fist in his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Boromir staggered, trying to catch his balance, and fell heavily against the Orc, his legs too weak to hold him upright. Uglúk steadied him for a moment, something nearly kind in his touch, then he abruptly shoved Boromir forward until his face slapped against the foul leather of the curtain.

"In you go, my fine lord!"

Boromir fell through the opening, his injured leg collapsing beneath him and sending shards of pain through his body. He landed among a thicket of Orc legs, iron-shod feet shuffling and crunching about him in an ominous manner. But to his surprise, they did not lash out at him. They waited for Uglúk to follow him into the main cavern, and they fell back as their chieftain approached.

"On your feet, Prince," Uglúk roared, much to the delight of his troops.

"My lord," a small voice whimpered, just by Boromir's head. "My lord Steward…"

"Peace, Borlas," he muttered to the boy. Then Uglúk's hands fastened on him again and he found himself on his feet, being hauled through a mob of hooting, snarling, taunting Orcs toward a fire that reeked of dung and cooking meat. The heat of it on his chill body was welcome, but the smell nearly choked him, mingled as it was with the stench of Orcs and their unimaginable filth. He gasped for breath, sagging in Uglúk's clutches, his stomach heaving.

"Here's your prince, lads! Here's your great lord of Men!" Uglúk thrust him into an open space before the fire and let go his iron grip. "What do you think of him, eh?"

Boromir fought to keep his feet, to breathe in the sickening reek of the fire without retching, to ignore the pain of torn and half-healed muscles, to keep his head up and his shoulder straight under the eyes of his men and his enemies alike. He was Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Anórien, and he would not cower before such creatures.

The litany had its effect, and even as the Uruk-hai shouted their chorus of insults, he drew himself up to stand proudly before them.

"Is that what they call a prince?" an Orc shrieked from the back of the cavern. "Looks like a blind beggar to me!"

"Gah! What a stink! Prince of the dungheap, he is!"

"Here, have a bit of this!" A handful of something soft and foul struck Boromir in the side of the head. "It smells better than you do, _my lord prince!_"

Boromir did not flinch under blows or insults. He remained still and outwardly calm, as the rain of missiles thickened and the cries of the Orcs grew more heated, while his thoughts raced. Uglúk had counseled him to humor his lads, but in what? How far would their antics go? Were blows and taunts enough to satisfy them? Or would they demand some more graphic humiliation?

"A song!" Dúrbhak howled, drowning out his fellows' noise. "Give us a song fit for a prince of Men!"

The others took up his cry, and soon the cavern rang with it. Boromir was taken aback at this demand. He had an ill voice and a worse ear for music, and he could think of few tasks more repellant than serenading a mob of drunken Orcs, but he did not doubt that they would force him to do it. And all things considered, perhaps a song was not such a high price to pay for keeping a whole skin.

He recoiled from a particularly heavy blow to the side, then kicked away the broken cooking pot that had struck him. The Orcs seemed to like this casual gesture in the face of their abuse and shrieked with laughter.

"Sing, Prince!" Uglúk snarled.

Boromir hesitated for a moment, his mind a complete blank, then opened his mouth and began to sing the only thing he could remember – a drinking song he had learned as a junior officer of the Guard. The words were simple and bawdy, just the thing for a company of off-duty soldiers, and they elicited delighted howls from the Orcs. He finished the song to loud applause and a fresh hail of food scraps. He began another, even rowdier song, offering up silent thanks to the rough soldiery who had taken the Steward's young son under their wings so many years ago, to educate him in life and the ways of women. Their teaching stood him in good stead now.

By the end of his third song, his voice was raw and his body weak with exhaustion. The throb of agony in his wounded leg threatened to pitch him into unconsciousness, and hunger made him too lightheaded to stand firmly in place. As he forced the last note from his thickened, aching throat, he staggered and slipped to one side. His left leg he could not bend, so drawn and painful was the wound, so he landed awkwardly on his right knee.

"My lord!" Borlas called, his shrill voice cutting through the din of the Orcs and bringing Boromir's head up sharply.

"_My lord!_" the Orcs jeered. "Quick, a pillow for his lordship!"

"A cushion for his princely arse!"

"A feast for his princely belly!"

"A feast! A feast! Throw him in the pot and give us a feast!"

"We must pay him for his song!" Dúrbhak called, gleefully. "What does a blind beggar earn for his song in the White City?"

As he spoke, the Orc darted forward and grabbed the rope tether that still hung from Boromir's collar. He gave it a fierce tug, jerking Boromir forward and forcing him to land squarely on both knees. He felt a dreadful tearing in his leg, and blood oozed hotly from the wound. Agony pounded through him with every beat of his laboring heart, dragging a gasp from him that set the Orcs howling again.

"What shall we give him, lads?"

"Copper coins?"

"His own dungheap to rule!"

"A taste of the lash!"

"No, lads, let's give him a good meal! Put some meat on his bones for later!"

A sudden cold dread filled Boromir, and he turned toward the sound of Uglúk's approach, his face full of a horror he could not mask. The Orc chieftain loomed over him, chuckling and calling out to his troops, "What say you? Do we pay the singer with meat?"

Boromir barely heard the screams and shouts of glee that answered him. His ears were trained on the soft clunks and scrapes that told him Uglúk was serving up a meal fit for a prince or a blind beggar. His stomach heaved, and he hunched forward, hiding his face from the glaring, gloating eyes of his captors.

A wooden bowl struck the stone beside him. Liquid sloshed gently in it. Uglúk stood in front of him, breathing heat and foulness over his skin, his leather armor rasping evilly in Boromir's ears.

"Eat, my lord Steward."

Through clenched teeth, without lifting his head, Boromir hissed, "I will not!"

"You'll offend my lads."

"_I will not!_"

Uglúk's hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake and fastened on the back of Boromir's neck. "I say you will, little soldier."

Boromir fought him blindly, desperately, throwing all his strength against the pressure of that terrible hand, but Uglúk was inexorable. He forced Boromir's head down and down, while Boromir tried to twist his body out from under the Orc's grip or reach the bowl with his knee to knock it away. Uglúk only laughed, while his troops cheered, Borlas sobbed and Boromir felt the blackness creeping into his mind again, tempting him toward oblivion.

"Eat, whiteskin!" Uglúk growled. "Enjoy the hospitality of the Uruk-hai! Be grateful for your meat!"

Boromir felt the light breath of steam on his face and wrenched his head furiously to one side. The bowl slopped, spilling hot broth and stewed meat against his face, and he uttered a low, agonized cry of disgust.

"Eat or drown!"

Boromir had just enough time to suck in a quick breath before Uglúk plunged his face into the bowl. He could no longer hear the Orcs or Borlas; his ears were full of the rush of his own blood and the screams of protest he could not utter aloud. He could not break free and he would not breathe. His lungs labored to expand, his heart staggered in his breast, and his limbs twitched in a futile, weakening bid for freedom. Then, at last, the blackness claimed him and he sank into blessed unconsciousness.

He came back to himself to find the quiet of Uglúk's cave around him. His cheek lay on cold stone, bouts of shuddering gripped his limbs and his chest ached with the memory of his struggles to breathe. For a moment, he doubted that this was real. He doubted that he lived at all and feared that his mind had retreated into madness on its way to death. But then he felt Uglúk's hands on his leg, felt a burn of pain go through him at the Orc's touch, and knew that he had not died. He had simply returned to the familiar paths of his nightmare.

Uglúk grunted and grumbled as he worked, and Boromir picked out enough phrases in the common tongue to gather that he was annoyed at the fresh damage done to his prisoner's wound. "A right mess," he muttered, then launched into a series of orcish curses. "It will never knit properly now. Fool of a whiteskin. Cursed _tark_. All you had to do was sing a song or two… take a bit of name-calling…"

"Eat a bit of man-flesh," Boromir rasped out, his throat raw and aching.

"Hah. Finally awake, eh?" Uglúk spat on the floor and tightened the bandage with a jerk. "Stubborn fool."

"I will never eat the flesh of Men," Boromir whispered. "I will die first."

"Then you're a stupid, arrogant _tark_ and you deserve what you get. The lads were only playing."

"I will die first," he repeated, doggedly.

Uglúk gave a snort of disgust and rose to his feet. A moment later, Boromir heard a wooden bowl smack down on the floor beside his head. "Eat, or you _will_ die, and through no fault of the Uruk-hai."

Boromir turned his head away from the offered bowl, rolling onto his stomach and grinding his injured leg into the harsh stone as he did so. Uglúk spat again and growled, with real anger in his voice, "It's only porridge! But go on, turn your nose up at it, _my lord Steward_." With that, he stomped out of the cave.

Boromir lay very still, until he heard Uglúk's footsteps move far into the cavern and knew that he was alone. Then he twisted onto his side, hunting for the bowl. He brushed it with his jaw and lifted his head, poised above it, to inhale the scent. It smelled of musty grain and faintly rancid water, with a familiar acrid stench that called to mind the many meals burnt to the bottom of this same ancient, rusted, filthy pot. In another life, the odor wafting against his face would have made Boromir turn away in disgust, but now he smiled.

It was porridge.

* * *

The sky had barely begun to lighten above the mountains' peaks, when Aragorn stepped to the head of the assembled company and took Roheryn's reins from his lieutenant. The men waited in two distinct groups – the Dúnedain to his left; the Men of Minas Tirith and Ithilien to his right, and with them the few members of his Court who had elected to take the rougher road home. Arwen waited with the Grey Company, beneath the jeweled standard that she had wrought with her own hands. Beside her stood a slim youth in the livery of Ithilien whom Aragorn did not recognize until he saw the horse he led.

"What is this?" he asked, stepping hastily toward the two figures.

The youth doffed his helm to show the pale, determined face of Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan. She met the King's troubled gaze squarely and said, "I will ride the faster in this garb, and fight the better, should it come to battle." She smiled faintly, the first sign of warmth Aragorn had seen in her since Legolas' arrival, and added, "There are several among my lord's escort who will travel lighter for having lent me their extra gear."

Only then did Aragorn notice that she wore a long sword at her side and carried a shield upon her back. He raised his brows at Arwen, but his lady wife only returned his look and settled her bow more comfortably upon her shoulder. Aragorn nodded once, in acceptance, and turned away to be met by Faramir and Legolas hurrying toward him.

"We can ride at your command, Aragorn," Legolas informed him. "The Company is ready."

"That is well."

"Elessar," Faramir said, drawing his attention, "there is one of the Guard who would speak with you."

"Can it not wait until we make camp tonight?"

"Nay, I think not."

"Very well."

Faramir turned to wave forward a young man who waited a few paces behind him. The guardsman stepped forward and saluted crisply. He was little more than a boy, not yet worthy to be called a man, but he wore his mail and sword with ease and bore himself well. And his face was distinctly familiar to Aragorn, though he could not put a name to the boy.

"This is Bergil, son of Beregond, cadet of the Third Company," Faramir said.

That explained the familiarity of his face. In another time and place, Aragorn might have greeted the son of Beregond with warmth and kind words, but on this morning, he had no patience for such niceties. Nodding brusquely, he asked, "What business has a cadet of the Third Company with us? Speak, Bergil, for we are in haste."

"I beg your pardon, my lord," Bergil said, his voice firm though his eyes were wide and anxious. "I would not delay our errand for a dragon's hoard, but I must ask…" His eyes shifted to Legolas, and his voice shook slightly, despite his best efforts to the contrary. "Do you know aught of the Steward's escort, Master Legolas? Was his page, Borlas, with him?"

"Borlas!" the Elf cried in sudden dismay.

"He is my brother."

"Aiee! I had forgot it. In all our troubles, I had forgot the boy."

"He rode often with Prince Boromir. He loved his lord well and would not willingly be separated from him."

"I know it. And I rue it."

"Then it is as I feared, and he is lost?"

"He is lost." Legolas gazed sorrowfully at the youth, who was struggling manfully to keep his emotions in check under the eyes of all these great ones. "I grieve with you, Bergil. He is naught but a child, yet he has the heart of a warrior full grown, and he is my friend."

"I, too, am grieved," Aragorn said, clasping Bergil's arm in sympathy.

Bergil drew himself up to his full height, pulling his youthful dignity about him like a war cloak, and lifted his chin proudly. "My lord King, give me leave to ride in the van with your Dúnedain."

"We all ride to the same battle," Aragorn reminded him. "You will arrive soon enough, whether you ride with the Dúnedain or your own company."

"For Borlas' sake, lord, let me be first upon the field and first into the fray. Let me go with you into the dark burrows of the Orcs to find my brother – to free him or to avenge him. Let me do him this much honor, I pray you!"

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, turning over his request, and found that he did not have it in him to refuse. Little though he needed an unseasoned boy at his side when he ventured beneath the Misty Mountains, he could not deny Bergil's right to strike a blow for his brother and he understood his need for vengeance all too well.

Clasping Bergil's arm again, briefly, he said, "You and I will draw swords together, Bergil, son of Beregond. Whether the battle is joined in the hills of Dunland or the dens of the Orcs, whether it is for rescue or for vengeance, we will fight together. More I cannot promise you, for I know not what awaits us at the end of our road."

Bergil bowed, a flush mantling his cheeks, and said fervently, "I thank you, my lord!"

"Ride with me, Bergil," Faramir offered, gravely. "If you will deign to wear the white of Ithilien, instead of the black and silver of the Tower Guard, I will number you among my escort and undertake to bring you first into the field. For your father's sake, and your own, I would have you ride with me."

Bergil shot him a fierce, exultant look. "I would be honored, my prince."

"'Tis well," Aragorn said. "But make haste, for I will not tarry in this place. Every moment of delay is another moment that those we love must suffer. Make haste!"

The youth, torn between grief and elation, saluted them all and hurried away to find his horse.

Under a sky of pearl grey, the King's Company rode from the valley that had been its camp, issuing through the narrow pass and pouring down into the next folded valley. King Elessar led them beneath his jeweled banner, with Legolas on the one hand and Faramir on the other, and all the company took their mood from their lord. It was a grim cavalcade that hurried south – silent, with no voice lifted in laughter or song to lighten their hearts – into the gathering storm.

**_To be continued…_**


	9. Song for the Dead

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone! Once again, I must ask your forgiveness for taking FAR too long to write this chapter! I hope it doesn't disappoint. After four months of writer's block, I'm just so happy to be writing again that I've lost all perspective and honestly don't know if this is any good, or if it's a load of tripe and it will make me cringe when I read it a week from now. It felt good to write, if that's any indication.

Thank you again for your patience, your encouragement, your reviews, and sticking with me when I go off into another dimension and don't write home for ages. It means the world to me that you care enough about this story to nag me for more, and I honestly couldn't finish it without you! So, please forgive me, thank you again, and… Enjoy!

-- Chevy

P.S. This blasted html editor won't let me put in some of the smaller breaks (not major scene divisions) that I want, so if the Aragorn scene seems to jump about in a confusing way, IT'S NOT MY FAULT!

* * *

**Chapter 9: _Song for the Dead_**

Life assumed a new rhythm for Boromir after that ghastly feast. The Orcs took a fancy to their princely captive and called nightly for him to join their revels. Uglúk indulged them often enough that Boromir grew almost accustomed to these tests of his patience and humility. He sang his soldier's songs, he endured the taunting of the Orcs, he withstood their occasional blows, and he grew to understand what they expected of him.

A show of resistance, a flash of haughtiness, followed by reluctant submission; it was a simple pattern, once he found it. So long as he neither fought too hard nor capitulated too easily, the Orcs did him no lasting harm and sent him back to his meager bed with a chorus of half-affectionate jeers and blows. Their greatest pleasure came from watching Boromir kneel before them to lap food from a bowl on the floor. They offered him porridge, dried horse flesh and iron-hard bread that crumbled into dust in his mouth, but no man-flesh. And though his gorge rose at the indignity of it, as much as at the grim fare, he forced himself to eat, while the Orcs screamed and stamped and threw refuse at him in an excess of mirth.

Humility came hard to Boromir, but where he could not bow to the might of his captors, he could bow to necessity. He lived by Uglúk's sufferance. The moment that Uglúk decided his interests were better served by feeding Boromir to his troops than by keeping him chained in a cave, Boromir would meet an ignominious end in the bellies of the Uruk-hai. And the more loudly those troops clamored for a princely meal, the more inclined Uglúk might be to give it them. So Boromir swallowed his pride, swallowed his lumpy porridge, and gave the Orcs what they wanted.

In the quiet of the inner cave, while the Uruks slept off their drink or labored in Saruman's tunnels, Boromir rested, pondered his fate and dreamed of home. This part of his life remained much the same, but it took on a new importance to him, a new comfort, when contrasted to the base torments of his time in the great cavern.

Uglúk applauded his good sense in surrendering to the Orcs' demand and eating what was given him, but he did not force Boromir to repeat the performance in the privacy of the inner cave. Quite the contrary, he treated the Man with a more pronounced respect than before and left off baiting him with hints of conquest or threats of a gruesome death. Boromir gathered, from comments casually dropped, that Uglúk was striking as fine a balance as Boromir himself in dealing with his troops – giving them enough of their pet Princeling's company to keep them happy, without allowing them to grow bored or to harm him with their rough play. Boromir was grateful for his care but confused by his own gratitude, and troubled by thoughts of what new horrors the Orcs might concoct should watching him lap up his food like a beast grow commonplace.

Of the other captives, he learned little. The men returned to the cavern only once, and on that night Boromir was not called upon to perform for the Orcs. Éofal sang for them, while Boromir lay in his fetid prison and let the young man's voice – now no more than a ragged and strained remnant of itself – conjure visions in his head of Rohan's plains, of horses running free beneath the sky, and of water dancing in the moonlight. His throat ached as if he had himself sung the night through, but it was tears that choked him, not a tune. And he was both sorry and glad when the young Rider at last fell quiet.

The Rohirrim returned to their labors in the southern tunnels with the Orcs' waking, and Boromir heard no more of them. Only Borlas remained, and the boy had grown so quiet in the last weeks that Boromir was often struck by the fear that he had died, alone in his pen, and gone into the stewpot without ceremony. Then a cough or a childish cry of distress would reach his ears, and he would know that Borlas lived. For the present.

Boromir tried often to bring his fellow captives to Uglúk's notice, but the wily Orc would have none of it. When Boromir spoke of them, he turned the subject, made mention of how tasty Man-flesh was and how he looked forward to his next such meal, or stomped out of the cave, tossing a curse at Boromir as he went. The Orcish tongue had few subtleties in it, but it boasted more ways to curse, threaten or revile than any language of Man or Elf, and Boromir had by this time learned most of them. While he made no progress in his plan to soften Uglúk toward his other prisoners, he did expand his vocabulary in colorful ways.

It had been more than a week, by Boromir's count, since the Riders' last appearance in the cavern when he tried yet again to bring them to Uglúk's notice. Boromir had spent a particularly grueling few hours in the main cavern the night before, then collapsed on his pallet to sink into fitful slumber, tormented by the pain in his leg and evil dreams. Now he sat with his back to the wall, his head propped wearily against rough stone, and listened to the Orc mutter under his breath as he tended the stubborn wound.

Uglúk took it as a personal affront that the gash in the Man's leg refused to heal, though he had predicted as much himself. He slapped a poultice over it more roughly than usual, and he laughed harshly when Boromir flinched. But his amusement did not last, and he was soon growling to himself again in his own tongue.

"'Tis the kneeling opens it," Boromir commented, when Uglúk paused for breath. "Each time I bend my knee, it tears the wound afresh."

The Orc snorted. "A prince's knees are not made to bend, eh?"

"You see how I bend them," Boromir snapped, unable to keep the bitterness from his words, "and how I debase myself at your command."

"The lads must have their fun."

"A commander who must bribe his troops with entertainments and addle their wits with drink to keep them in line is no true leader."

Uglúk paused, his clawed hand poised above Boromir's leg as though undecided whether to bandage or rend it, then he chuckled and gave the Man a playful slap to the face that rocked his head to one side and started his ears ringing. "Mind your tongue, little soldier, or I'll tear it out and make a snack of it."

Boromir was now certain that such threats held no real danger for him, but he felt his innards twist with a familiar revulsion at the picture this conjured in his head. "Have a care, Uglúk. If you take my tongue, you will have to bring Éofal to sing in my place and lose his strong back in the southern caves."

"Éofal?" the Orc asked, curious. "Who is this Éofal?"

"The youth with the voice of a woodland Elf."

"Pah!" Uglúk spat noisily and growled, "The name is as milky and mewling as the whiteskin who wears it. It sours my mouth."

Boromir controlled the urge to smile at his outburst. He had caught Uglúk unawares, betrayed him into showing an interest in his prisoners, and they both knew it. Keeping his voice mild, with no hint of triumph in it, Boromir said, "I have heard him singing for your lads, as he did around our campfires of a night, and wondered how it is the mighty Uruk-hai prefer my caterwauling to his melodies."

"He yowls like a scalded cat. I'd have cooked him long ago and spared us his screeching, but he has no more meat on him than an old boot."

"He reminds me of my brother," Boromir mused, improvising madly as he went, "more scholar than soldier, but with an arm that could skewer an oak with his lance. Of a proud family, an ancient bloodline among his people, full of wisdom and music and tales of far lands."

"Now he is a slave," Uglúk retorted, "and the Uruk-hai will sweat the tales out of him."

"Éofal, son of Éodred. Rider of Westfold." Boromir spoke the words quietly, but both Man and Orc felt the force of the challenge in them.

"I say he is a slave," Uglúk snarled, leaping to his feet with the scrape of stiff leather and the rasp of metal, "and Orc fodder!" Bending close to Boromir, so that his foul breath burned the Man's face, he hissed, "Give him what name you will, Princeling, but it is the name Uglúk gives him that will stick! _Slave!_"

With that, the Orc strode out of the cave, leaving Boromir alone, with his leg unbandaged and his mind in turmoil.

* * *

Aragorn reined in at the top of the hill and gazed down the long, folded valley below, eyes narrowed against the dying light. Rain had fallen steadily through the day's ride, and only now, as the wind freshened and blew streamers of cloud away to the south, did the last rays of sunlight touch the empty land about them. That same wind lifted a long, spiraled column of smoke from the trees at the valley's foot, nearly a league distant, and carried it south toward the Gap of Rohan.

Aragorn watched the smoke in silence, wondering what it presaged. Beside him, Legolas leapt from Arod's back and trod lightly to the very lip of the hill, where the rain-soaked earth threatened to give way. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the glare to the west, he peered intently into the thickening shadows.

"'Tis a campfire, I deem," Faramir said, from where he sat his horse to Aragorn's left. "Or mayhap a herdsman's cot."

Aragorn nodded absently, his gaze still fixed on the distant smoke. "This uncertain light plays tricks on my eyes. What see you, Legolas?"

"Flame through the trees," the Elf answered, "and horses. A mounted company."

"The Rohirrim!" Faramir exclaimed.

"Or a band of brigands," Aragorn cautioned, "camped in this wild place where they need not conceal their presence."

"Nay, Aragorn, look!" Legolas turned to the King, his face alight with joy, and flung out an arm to point at the valley's foot. "A standard lifts on the wind!"

"I have not your long eyes, Master Elf. What standard?"

"There, at the edge of the trees. Grass green and white! The running horse of Rohan!"

A smile lit Aragorn's face, full of relief and a weary, ragged hope. "Éomer King has not failed us."

"Gimli would not allow it," Legolas retorted. He turned and crossed to where Arod stood, leaping easily to the beast's high back. "Come, my king, let us make haste."

It was nearly midnight when the King's Company rode at last from the valley and reached the perimeter of the horsemen's camp. The light of their torches had alerted the Rohirrim to their coming, and a pair of sentries stood forth to bar their way, swords drawn and silver helms glinting in the firelight. More men watched from beside the enormous fire at the center of the camp.

Roheryn stepped tiredly up to the nearest guard and halted, his proud head drooping. The man looked from the exhausted horse to the grim-faced rider on his back and snapped to attention.

"I charge you, in the name of Éomer King, halt and be recognized!"

Aragorn smiled mirthlessly. "I am Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, who rides with Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Legolas of Henneth Annûn in haste to find Gimli, Glóin's son of Aglarond."

Both sentries bowed before the duly recognized King, then the speaker straightened and said, "The Dwarf is here, my Lord Elessar. You will find him in the Marshal's tent."

"Who commands your company?"

"'Tis Elfhelm, my lord."

"We would speak with him at once."

"Aragorn!" Gimli strode through the gathered Riders, shouldering their taller forms aside so he could reach the King. "Aragorn, by all that's holy! How came you here so swiftly? Has the Elf sprouted wings, that he flew all the way to Rivendell and back?"

Legolas sprang down from Arod's back and stepped forward to greet his friend, smiling at the sight of him in spite of his troubled heart. "Aye, Gimli. Did you not know that the Elves of Mirkwood can fly at need?" He dropped to one knee and embraced the Dwarf warmly.

"You come in good time, Master Elf," Gimli said, as they moved apart. "I am right glad to see you, and Aragorn. Ah, Aragorn, we have sorely missed your sharp eyes and huntsman's skill."

"They are at your service, Master Dwarf." Aragorn dismounted and handed his reins to Bergil, who hovered at Faramir's shoulder. Then he nodded graciously to the Rider who stood at Gimli's side. "Marshal Elfhelm. I must beg your hospitality for my company. We have no tents to pitch, but we need fodder for our horses and a patch of ground on which to spread our cloaks, for we have ridden far and are sorely in need of rest."

"You shall have all that and more, King Elessar. You are most welcome!"

Elfhelm's tent was neither so large nor so comfortably appointed as the one Aragorn had abandoned on the road south, but it had a large brazier for warmth and enough stools for the King, Queen and Lady Éowyn. Legolas sat cross-legged on a fur rug, with Gimli beside him, and Faramir stood at his lady's back. Elfhelm had rolled back a rug to expose the ground beneath and used his dagger's point to scratch a map in the dirt.

"The Steward's party was attacked here," he drew a circle in the dirt with his dagger, "some mile to the north and east of this camp. We have searched all the ground from that point east, to this high ridge," he drew a line running parallel to the mountains' feet, "but have found no trace of the Orcs' passage save some trampled thorn bushes and a piece of discarded leather that looks to have come from a horse's tack. They must have taken the horses with the men, for no beasts were found, dead or alive, and we had hoped to track them by their hoofprints. But alas, the rains have destroyed all sign of horse, Orc or Man."

"You are certain of the place of ambush?" Aragorn asked.

"Aye. There can be no doubt that the Steward and his escort made camp there among the trees, picketing their horses nearby. They had leisure enough to light fires, prepare a meal, and spread their bedrolls upon the ground. All of their gear that had no value to the plundering Orcs remains, scattered and broken, trampled into the mud by their foul feet, but still there for us to find."

"There were no bodies?" Éowyn asked, her voice low and intent. "No dead to bury?"

Elfhelm threw her a somber glance and answered, "Nay, lady."

Éowyn bowed her head. She, like all those gathered in the tent, knew that the absence of dead did not mean that all the Riders had survived the Orcs' attack, or that any of them yet lived. It only confirmed what they all had feared, that the Orc band had come west in search of more than plunder.

"You have kept Boromir's camp undisturbed, have you not?" Aragorn said into the grim silence.

The Marshal nodded, eager to turn the subject and be back on familiar ground. "Aye, lord. It is ringed about with lances, and we have held the _éored_ to the south of it. The Dwarves are camped here," he stabbed at the ground with his dagger once more, "hard by the ridge."

Gimli leaned forward to peer at the map. "That ridge is bare stone, but for a few hardy brambles and an overgrown gully, cut by a stream that flows down from the mountains' feet. We have combed it for some telltale mark of orcish boots or horses' hooves but found naught. At daybreak, I mean to take the Dwarves farther east, up the slopes of the mountains. If the Orcs have left no trail to guide us, we must find the door ourselves."

Aragorn stared long at the map, considering, then he sat back and let his gaze scan their faces. "Gimli's plan may well be our best hope, but I would ask that he wait one day more. At first light, Legolas and I will search Boromir's camp. The eyes of Rangers and Elves may find what others could not. But if, as Elfhelm states, all trace of the Orcs' trail is lost, then we must rely on the craft of the Dwarves to find a way beneath the mountains."

A long silence met his words, broken at last when Arwen said, "'Tis the path we all knew we must tread in the end."

"A dark path," Elfhelm said, "a bitter path, and one that leads to death."

At that, Aragorn smiled. "I have traveled such paths before and fear not death or darkness." He looked to Legolas and Gimli, the smile lingering in his eyes. "Are you, my companions of old, with me in this?"

Legolas nodded. "As in all things, my king."

"Just you try to hold me back!" Gimli exclaimed. "It is the Dwarves who will lead the way!"

"And you will have the Men of Gondor and Ithilien at your back, Master Gimli," Faramir interjected. "Mayhap the hardy Dwarves of Aglarond will be glad of our bright swords, when they beard the beasts in their den."

"We will, indeed, Prince Faramir. This is no contest of strength between Men and Dwarves, but a dire quest with an uncertain end, and I, for one, am thankful for every sword, axe, bow and knife that will brave it with me."

Aragorn rose abruptly to his feet, quieting the banter of his companions. "That is well, but not every Man and Dwarf may go with us, though all were willing. And some there are among us," he shot a speaking glance at Arwen and Éowyn, "who must needs bow to their king's command and stay behind. We will talk of this again tomorrow, when I have seen Boromir's camp and studied the lay of the land. Until then, we must all take our rest and prepare for the day to come."

Legolas waited only to be sure that Aragorn had no more commands or thoughts to share with him, then he slipped out of the tent while the Men were sorting out their sleeping quarters. He strode through the camp, skirting the great fire that burned at its center, throwing sparks up at the stars, to the edge of the clearing. At his feet the ground fell away into a deep gully filled with the gurgle of a running stream. Above him loomed the Misty Mountains, a huge, ominous shadow, blotting out the sky to the east and breathing cold down upon the creatures huddled at their feet.

He tilted back his head and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of wet grass and burning wood. The night was cold but clean, and lovely in its loneliness. Legolas felt a curious sense of peace, though he knew that peril and cruel disappointment likely awaited him with the dawn. He had no illusions that he and Aragorn could find clues to Boromir's fate in the weeks-old, rain-washed tatters of the camp. Nor did he think it likely that they would find a way into the Orcs' tunnels without much labor and luck. In days such as these, with Men growing stronger and the foul beasts of the Shadow all dead, fled or in hiding, the Orcs would not dare to leave their doors unbarred, and Aragorn had no Gandalf with him to open orcish locks.

It would be a hard day, Legolas deemed. It would bring much pain to all those who loved Boromir and who had looked with hope on Aragorn's coming. But for all his dire predictions, the Elf could not but hope, himself. He could not but believe that together he, Gimli and Aragorn would find their lost friend and bring him safely from his dark prison.

"Thinking of the last time we ventured beneath those dour peaks, were you?"

Legolas smiled down at the Dwarf. He had listened to Gimli's noisy progress through the camp for some minutes, waiting for him to approach, glad of his company and his gruff, familiar voice beside him in the lonely night. "Nay, Gimli. I was thinking of another chase, when we pursued the Uruk-hai across all the leagues of Rohan to save our friends."

Gimli gave a grunt of humorless laughter. "Neither memory is of much comfort tonight."

Legolas turned his gaze once more to the velvet canopy above, where stars glittered like gems from between the ragged trails of cloud. "Take comfort in the light of Ëarendil and the music the stars weave as they dance."

"Boromir likes the stars."

"He hears their song. So too might you, if you would but listen."

"Elvish nonsense." There was no conviction in his taunt, and Legolas smiled to hear it.

"Do the stones of the mountain's root sing to you, Gimli, as you labor in your carven halls?"

"Aye. Deep and rich is their song, like the voice of the very earth itself." He shot Legolas a sideways glance and added, slyly, "You too might hear it. If you would but listen."

Legolas chuckled, dropping a hand to rest on Gimli's shoulder. "Dwarvish fancies, I warrant you. The air in your deep tunnels grows thin, and your wits wander."

They fell into a companionable silence, each letting his thoughts turn toward the Misty Mountains and the task that faced them on the morrow, until Gimli's voice startled Legolas out of a deep reverie.

"I am glad you are here, Master Elf. Loath as I am to admit it, I do not relish that dark road."

"Nor do any of us."

"I made a vow, to Boromir and to myself, that I would bring him home to Minas Tirith, and I mean to keep it. But I know not how." He shook his head, eyes dwelling sadly on the great shadow before them. "I know not how."

* * *

Uglúk did not return to the inner cave all that day. Boromir heard him bellowing orders at Borlas until the boy whimpered in fear, but soon after, he left the main cavern and disappeared into the bowels of the mountain. Left uncovered, the poultice on Boromir's leg dried and crumbled away, and the wound began to throb afresh. Boromir had neither food nor water, the pain in his leg kept him from rest, and the nagging fear that he had blundered in his handling of Uglúk filled the lonely hours with doubt.

The venom in the Orc's parting words had both surprised and unsettled Boromir. He had come to know Uglúk well in these past weeks, come to rely on his intelligence and believe that he could predict his choices. But now he feared that he had pushed Uglúk too far and done his fellows more harm than good in bringing them forcibly under the Orc Chieftain's eye. He could not know this for certain until he read the Orc's mood a second time, after his rage had cooled, but Uglúk gave him no such opportunity.

He could do naught but wait, and wait he did, until the tramping of iron-shod feet and the raucous cries of Orcs told him that the long day was ending at last. They came as they always did, chanting and shouting, hurling jests and insults at one another. Boromir strained his ears for some sound that would betray the Riders' presence among them, and was both frustrated and relieved to hear none. Then he heard the sickening sound of a body striking the floor, and clearly beneath the clamor of the Orcs, a boy's voice cry out in horror.

His stomach felt suddenly hollow, and his throat constricted painfully. There could be no mistaking it, now that he let himself hear: the note of excitement in the Orcs' voices, the eagerness with which they poured into the cavern, laughing and howling with glee. They were preparing a feast. Another Rider had fallen.

Boromir's gorge rose at the thought, and a chill sweat broke out all over his body. They would come for him, he knew, when the pot bubbled and the wine flowed. Uglúk would come for him and thrust him into the middle of that drunken, slavering mob, and then they would force him to share their vile fare. Or they would try.

"Smartly now, lads," Uglúk called, his voice carrying easily over the din, "put the flasks over there and stoke up the fire! Ghasha, fetch water."

Feet trampled about the cavern, weapons clattered as Orcs shed their harness, and glass clinked against stone to the accompaniment of sloshing sounds. Boromir guessed that they had brought some of the best from Saruman's private cellars to wash down their meal. Uglúk continued to shout commands, while Borlas sobbed quietly in his lonely pen, just outside the curtain. Boromir lay on his filthy, rumpled cloak, breathing deeply, struggling to quiet his racing pulse and prepare himself for the battle of wills to come.

"Here now, gently, lads!" Uglúk roared. "He's special, that one."

Boromir stiffened, his head lifting from the floor and his blind eyes turning instinctively toward the doorway. An icy finger of dread trailed down his back.

"A man of learning! A spinner of tales and a singer of songs!"

"Gah!" Dúrbhak spat. "I hope he tastes sweeter than he sings."

"Show some respect, you maggot," Uglúk chided, his voice mocking, edged with cruel laughter. "That is Master Éofal, Rider of Westfold, not some nameless beast you're butchering."

Boromir did not hear Dúrbhak's answer. The pounding of his own blood in his ears drowned out all else, and bile rose, thick and sour, in his throat. "What have I done?" He gasped. "Sweet Valar, what have I done?"

He let his head drop forward and pressed his forehead into the rough, cold stone. He was shaking, his body wracked with sobs he could not utter, and the breath tore at his lungs. A dreadful, animal cry of pain forced its way past his clenched teeth. His ruined eyes shed no tears, but in his heart, where he knew that he had brought this doom upon a trusting companion, he wept scalding tears of grief and shame.

Uglúk came for him, just as Boromir had known he would. An uncounted time later, he heard the slap of Uglúk's hand against the leather curtain, and the Orc chieftain strode into the chamber. He halted, towering over Boromir's huddled form, and laughed scornfully.

"Time to play, little soldier."

Boromir gave no sign that he heard.

Uglúk uttered another sour laugh and knocked the pin that anchored Boromir's tether from the wall with a few swift strokes of his hammer. Then he grabbed his prisoner by his bound arms and hauled him to his feet. Catching the tether just where it passed through Boromir's collar, he wrapped it twice about his fist. The bite of iron and rope about his throat held the wounded Man upright, as Uglúk marched him toward the main cavern.

Uglúk thrust Boromir roughly through the curtain. Stinking hide struck Boromir in the face. He staggered and would have fallen, but a horny hand caught and steadied him. Then Uglúk had him by the tether again, dragging him forward to his wonted place before the fire.

Boromir stumbled after his tormentor, awash in pain, sickness and horror. His mind refused to accept the evidence of ears and nose. His body refused to obey his commands. The stench of cooking meat filled the cavern, choking him. His innards roiled, his gorge rose, and each step sent jagged shards of agony through his leg and body. In such a state, he hardly noticed when Uglúk let go his tether and stepped away, leaving him to face the mob of jeering, shrieking Orcs alone.

"A song!" Snaga shouted. "Give us a song!"

It was the usual pattern, the familiar ritual, and for a precarious moment, Boromir teetered on the brink of giving in, of giving them what they wanted and playing the humbled princeling for them yet again. But even as he opened his mouth to sing, a wave of black fury rose in him, strangling his voice before it passed his lips.

"Sing, little soldier," Uglúk growled, his voice full of gloating, sneering laughter, "sing for your supper!"

Boromir felt no fear in him, only horror at what his meddling had done and a cold determination never to dance to Uglúk's piping again, though it cost him his life. Something of his thoughts must have shown in his face, for when he turned to Uglúk, he heard the chieftain's hissing intake of breath, even through the shouting and howling of the other Orcs. Uglúk hesitated for the space of a heartbeat, then he stepped forward, boots crunching ominously on stone.

"_Sing!_" he snarled, and now there was no laughter in him.

Boromir held his defiant, challenging pose for one moment more, then he turned very slowly back to face his audience and opened his mouth. The words came to him unbidden, forming on his lips as the remembered sound of his brother's voice filled his head. They were beautiful words, charged with power and emotion, and in that lightless, hopeless place, they seemed to him the very music of the stars he loved.

"_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
silivren penna míriel  
o melen aglar elen…_"

A shattering howl of rage cut through his song, and an iron hand struck him full in the face. The blow sent Boromir flying. He landed on his back in a heap of refuse, smashing several empty wine flasks as he fell. His ears rang and his mouth filled with blood, and somewhere in the distance, he heard Borlas screaming. More blood ran from the wound in his leg, torn open yet again by the fall, and from the places where shards of glass dug into his back and shoulders. The cavern echoed with curses, shrieks, and the clash of weapons hastily drawn, as Orcs milled about in a frenzy of rage.

Uglúk roared an order in his own tongue, then lashed out at Boromir, striking him in the face again. Boromir gasped but did not cry out.

"_How dare you?!_" Uglúk howled. "How dare you speak those words in front of me? Me, Uglúk, Captain of the Fighting Uruk-hai!"

A booted foot smashed into Boromir's side, and he doubled up in pain, his body shying away from the blow though his mind told him to be still. Uglúk lashed out again, hissing, "I'll tear your guts out with my bare hands and hang you up by them for the crows to peck at!"

Boromir fought to control his reaction, biting down on his bloodied lip to smother his cry and clutching at the rubble beneath him. His hand closed about a large, curved piece of glass so tightly that its edges cut into his fingers and his grip grew slippery with blood.

"I'll teach you to spit Elvish in my face, you worm," Uglúk snarled, as he fastened a hand in Boromir's shirt and hauled him away from the ground. Without waiting for Boromir to find his feet, the Orc began dragging him bodily through the cavern. "Filthy little rat! Elvish dog!"

Overcome by his own fury, he lifted Boromir in both hands and flung him away. Boromir struck metal and wood – a fence or wall of some kind – and his flying body crashed through it. He fell to the ground, feeling wood snap and splinter beneath him, then small hands clutched at his clothing and Borlas' voice cried, "My lord! Oh, my lord, do not leave me, I pray you!"

"Nay, Borlas…"

Uglúk's hand fastened in Boromir's shirt once more, hauling him away from the shattered wall of the pen. Boromir tried to find some words of reassurance for the terrified boy, but he had none to give. Still fighting to gain his feet, to leave the cavern with some vestige of dignity, Boromir clutched at the shard of glass in his right hand and gritted his teeth against the tearing agony in his leg. The sound of Borlas' weeping followed him through the curtain and into the smaller cave.

They were back in his private prison cell, and still Uglúk had not noticed the awkward, makeshift blade in Boromir's hand. It was too small for a weapon, with no blunt edge to grasp, but Boromir clung fiercely to it as if to the hilt of a sword, some corner of his mind daring to hope that he would find a time and place to use it.

"Don't get too comfortable," Uglúk snapped, as he tossed Boromir down on his cloak. "And don't think I'm going to forget this."

Boromir fell hard on his wounded leg and rolled sharply onto his back, stifling a cry of pain. Uglúk stooped over him, his breath hot on Boromir's face.

"I've let you off easy. Treated you well. And this is how you thank me?"

"You killed that boy!"

"_He was mine to kill!_" A clawed hand fastened under Boromir's chin, pushing it up and choking off his breath. "You forgot that, didn't you, my Lord Steward?"

The Orc's grip eased just enough for Boromir to speak, and he gasped out, "How could I? You have never let me forget what I am."

"A Prince? A lord of Men? _Pah!_" Uglúk spat in Boromir's face, then jerked his hand contemptuously away, letting the Man's head crack against the stone floor. Suddenly, talons raked across Boromir's shoulder, catching at his shirt and the chain that hung around his neck. "I'll have this off of you, too! Princely airs and Elvish trinkets!"

"Nay!" Boromir cried in protest.

Uglúk wrenched at the chain, growling in mingled pain and fury at its touch, until it snapped. Then he flung it away. Boromir heard the gem strike wood on the far side of the cave. Uglúk snatched up the pin that anchored Boromir's tether to the wall and began pounding it into the stone.

At the familiar sound of metal on metal, heralding another endless time of imprisonment and humiliation, a howl of pure rage burst from Boromir. Without thought for his own peril in that moment, he rolled sharply onto his side and threw his body backward, snapping the rope taut and tearing the pin from the wall. Uglúk snarled a curse and grabbed the rope. Boromir tried to scramble away, to gain his feet, but his wounded leg failed him. He rose to one knee, then Uglúk gave the rope a vicious tug, and Boromir found himself sprawled on the floor with the Orc's boot planted on his shoulder and his bruised cheek ground into the stone floor.

"Curse you for a coward, Uglúk," he panted, as his jailor knotted one fist in his tether and hauled him bodily over to the wall. "You slaughtered that boy out of fear!"

"I'd do the same for you and gladly," Uglúk spat, "but that would ruin all my fun. I want you to die by inches, howling like the cur you are."

"I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Anórien," Boromir said through clenched teeth. "Put a sword in my hand, and I will prove it on your twitching corpse!"

"You are a piece of filthy, stinking man-flesh, blind and weak and worthless!" Uglúk wielded his hammer once again, driving the pin into the wall in three mighty strokes.

"Blind and weak I may be, but I spitted Lugdush on his own knife easily enough."

Uglúk's hand shot out to fasten in Boromir's hair, wrenching his head back. His voice was an evil hiss in the darkness, heavy with malice and the promise of vengeance. "I haven't forgotten." Then, with a final blow and a snarled curse, the Orc was gone, stamping away to join his fellows at the feast.

Boromir lay where Uglúk had left him, breathing hard and fighting to subdue his futile rage. He could not free himself with threats nor save his comrades with cursing. Chains bound him, rope tethered him, and a small army of Orcs waited for him on the other side of the hide curtain. Naught had changed for the Steward of Gondor, and yet, everything had changed. For Boromir held in his hand a weapon of sorts, and he nursed in his heart a furious resolve to be free this night or to die. To find his way back to open sky and the world of Men, or to sink into the never-ending blackness where shame, pain and sorrow could not find him. He did not have Aragorn's Star to guide him now, but Boromir had dwelt in darkness long enough to know that he could do without light.

He would find a way.

* * *

"Here, Legolas, do you see? And here." Aragorn crouched low, his face only a hand span from the ground, his eyes intent on the fragments of glass embedded in the dirt. "And the grass is scorched, as well."

"There are such pieces all about the camp," Elfhelm said. "Broken bottles, I deem, though I know not why the Steward should carry wine bottles in his saddlebags."

"He did not," Legolas said, absently, as he studied the pattern of glass and scorch marks upon the ground. "Boromir drinks sparingly and is too skilled a campaigner to weigh himself down with bottles. This is passing strange, Aragorn. These bottles were not dropped or crushed, but burst asunder by some great force."

"Aragorn!" The King turned at the call to see his lieutenant, Arahael, hurrying toward him. The grey-clad Ranger held something cradled in his palm, which he held out to Aragorn as he rose to his feet. "What make you of this?"

Aragorn looked down at the piece of thick, greenish glass in Arahael's hand, frowning. "From the vineyards of Lossarnach, by the look of it. Only the river sands of the Anduin produce glass of that color."

"Aye, but this did not hold wine, my lord."

Aragorn threw him a sharp glance and took the shard from his hand to study it more closely. As he turned it before his eyes, he saw a sheen of oily color upon it and caught traces of an acrid, strangely familiar scent.

"I found it in the brambles, yonder," Arahael explained, "lodged among the branches, protected from much of the rain."

Aragorn held it carefully by the edges, so as not to wipe the traces of liquid from it, and breathed deeply of the smell. It caught at the back of his throat, making him cough and his eyes burn. "I know this stink. The dungeons of Isengard were rank with it."

"Isengard!" Legolas stepped swiftly forward and bent his head to bring it closer to the piece of glass. One breath, and he recoiled sharply, a grimace of disgust upon his face. "Aye. 'Tis the Wizard's sorcery, indeed."

"Saruman is dead," Gimli insisted, thumping the haft of his axe upon the ground to underscore his words. "His staff was broken, his power spent, and his fortress destroyed by the Ents."

"Yet Orthanc remains," Elfhelm cautioned.

"Its dungeons flooded and its doors guarded by the Onodrim of Fangorn," Aragorn said. "No creature may enter the tower without Fangorn's leave, and who is left to wield Saruman's power, should he find it?"

"'Twas Orcs that attacked Fedranth," Legolas assured him. "I saw their marks upon his body myself. I doubt not that Boromir was waylaid by Orcs, or that they have taken him into the mountains."

"Nor do I, Legolas, but how do Orcs come by such weapons?"

"Call you this a weapon?" Elfhelm asked. "I see only a piece of broken glass."

"The stuff this bottle held can burst into flame on the instant," Legolas said, grimly. "I watched it set Ents to burning like torches and smelled it in their smoking wounds. I know not what to call it, but I know that it is foul and dangerous."

"And the Wizard made it, you say?"

"Aye."

"Then might not the Wizard's Orcs know how to wield it?"

Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli all turned to gaze at the Rider in silence, their faces betraying their dismay. It was Arahael who spoke first, breaking the spell that held them.

"Did not all Saruman's creatures perish in the flood?"

Aragorn swallowed once to clear the tightness from his throat and rasped out, "Nay. Not all."

"Uglúk," Gimli growled.

"What is Uglúk?" Arahael asked.

"Captain of the Uruk-hai, a cursed Orc, and the canniest of that breed ever to foul the air of Middle-earth!" In a sudden burst of fruitless rage, Gimli hurled his axe to the ground and raised a fist to shake it at the silent peaks gazing down at him. "A plague take you, Boromir! How many times must we pull you out of the same trap? I should have tied you to a chair, kept you prisoner in Aglarond 'til Aragorn returned! I should have… I should have _hidden your sword!_"

Legolas clasped his shoulder in mute understanding, and the anger drained from Gimli as swiftly as it had come. His arm fell, and he opened and closed his fist helplessly against his mailed thigh.

"Take up your axe, Gimli, for you will need it," Aragorn chided softly.

The Dwarf gave an apologetic grunt and bent to retrieve his weapon from the grass.

Aragorn swept the ring of pale, tense faces turned to his and said, "It seems likely that Boromir was taken by the Uruk-hai. We know that some of their number escaped, under Uglúk's command, and that he among all the Orcs of Middle-earth has the wit to use Saruman's weapons against us. But still we do not know how he came to possess them."

"There must be an unguarded way into Orthanc," Arahael said.

"Or Saruman kept his stores elsewhere," Aragorn amended. "The mountains about the Wizard's Vale are riddled with tunnels and caves. Could they not have housed more than Orcs?"

"Treebeard sealed up many such caves to keep the Orcs from returning to Isengard," Gimli said. "We Dwarves helped him find them."

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully, a smile tilting his lips that had nothing of mirth in it. "Sealed them from without, not from within. If Uglúk knew of the Wizard's stores, he might easily have found and plundered them in the years since the fall of Isengard. We have been fools, my friends. Fools to think that a band of Uruk-hai would retreat tamely into exile, leaving behind a Wizard's hoard."

Elfhelm paled. "Will they attack Rohan, my lord?"

"I doubt they have the numbers, but I will not play hazard with the lives of your people. We must take counsel with Treebeard and find a way to burn out that nest of vermin once and for all."

"Aragorn?" The King looked quickly to Legolas, caught by the hopeful note in his voice. "Might not those tunnels give us our door into the Orcs' realm? Gimli knows where they are, and Fangorn has the skill to open them…"

Aragorn caught him by the arm, cutting off his words, and whirled on the Rider. "Marshal Elfhelm, take your _éored_ and ride south with all speed to Orthanc! Tell Treebeard that King Elessar begs this service of him, that he will find and open the passages into the mountains. Gimli, my friend…"

"Nay, Aragorn, you need not even ask. I and such of my Dwarves as can sit a horse will go south with the Rohirrim."

"Legolas, Faramir and I will remain here with the Men of Ithilien and Gondor. We will continue the search for the western door. Send word by your swiftest courier if you gain entrance to the tunnels, and I shall do the same. If you hear not from me by the third day after you reach Isengard, do not wait for me, but lead your troops into the caves."

Gimli grasped Aragorn's forearm in a soldier's salute and growled, "We will meet again in Uglúk's lair. Do not doubt it."

"Go swiftly, my friend, and good fortune go with you."

"And with you, my king." Gimli turned bright, fierce eyes on Legolas and growled, "Farewell, Master Elf. Do not forget what I have taught you of close fighting."

Legolas smiled. "I will not. Farewell, Gimli."

Then Dwarf and Rider were gone, hastening away to summon their troops. Legolas watched them go until they had passed out of the range of even his keen sight.

"Come, Legolas," Aragorn said at last. "We have much ground to cover and fewer men with which to do it."

With a slight sigh that Aragorn graciously forbore to notice, Legolas shouldered his bow and turned to follow his king into the trees.

* * *

His leg would no longer move at his command. He could not bend it save by digging his heel into the floor and shifting his body forward, forcing his knee upward, while waves of agony coursed through him like poison in his blood. He had to repeat the process three times ere he was able to guide the manacle chain beneath his heel and over his foot, but at last he managed it. With his left leg through, he quickly pulled the right through as well and collapsed back on the floor, shaking and breathless with pain.

The Orcs were still carousing, their voices carrying loudly from the main cavern, sounding angry, restless, and oddly melancholy to Boromir's ears. He heard snatches of tales, all hearkening back to the glorious days of war and pillage under the standard of the White Hand. Voices rose in bursts of rage or bitterness, as the Orcs compared their life as soldiers of Orthanc to their squalid existence as exiles beneath the mountains.

Boromir listened to their complaints, a humorless smile upon his lips, and pushed himself away from the floor. He had fitted the glass shard into one of his manacles, so he would not lose it while he struggled to pull his feet through the chain. Now he worked it free again, his fingers slipping on its smooth, hard surface.

The awkward blade had no dull edge to grasp, no place where he might hold it without cutting himself. Tearing a strip from his cloak, he bound it about his hand, then he turned the shard around until he found a firm purchase on it and began sawing at his rope tether. He had no very clear idea of what he would do, once he gained his freedom, but he had vowed that he would not spend another day tied like a beast in Uglúk's den, and Boromir of Gondor never broke a vow.

Uglúk was shouting for more wine, trying to jolly his lads out of their ill humor with promises of strong drink and bloody victories to come. Boromir clutched his blade the tighter and dug it all the harder into the thick, greasy rope, when he heard Uglúk describe the plunder and feasting that awaited the Uruk-hai within the pitiful fortresses of Men. They would burn out the horselords, he assured the drunken troops, sack their villages, eat their young, and set the able-bodied to labor at the rebuilding of Isengard. For the Wizard's Vale would be theirs once more, and the Tree Demons banished into the old forest or destroyed with axes and fire.

With a final cut of his blade, the rope parted and Boromir was free at last. He thrust the glass shard back into the manacle about his wrist, then he grasped the ring still sunk in the wall and hauled himself to his feet. At his first step, his wounded leg collapsed beneath him, pitching him to the floor and wrenching a gasp of pain from him. He bit down hard on his tongue to stifle the sound and lay rigidly still, straining his ears for some sign that the Orcs had heard him.

They were quieting at last, falling into a stupor of drink and cooling anger. Uglúk still moved among them, but his voice had dropped from a shattering bellow to a rumble, and Boromir could catch few of his words. The din was still loud enough to mask his furtive noises, however, so after a few tense minutes, he ventured to move again.

This time, he did not attempt to stand. He needed a staff to support his weight and a weapon with which to defend himself, and he hoped to find those things in the heaps of plunder Uglúk kept at the back of the cave. Shifting awkwardly onto his hands and one knee, Boromir half crawled, half dragged himself around the cold fire pit in the center of the floor to the stacked arsenal.

He knew this cave as well as he knew his own chambers in the Tower of Guard. He had never been free to explore it, but he had listened to Uglúk prowl its confines often enough, and he remembered where every crate, barrel and rusted piece of armor was stored. He approached cautiously, testing the air before him to avoid spitting himself on a spear in his haste, and finally felt rough metal under his hands.

They were orcish weapons he found first, clumsy and heavy-bladed, too large for Men to wield. Shifting to his left, he encountered a stack of bows, their strings rotted, and bundles of arrows now warped and useless. Still farther were helms, breastplates, vambraces and greaves thrown into a heap together, leather and iron and silver, all battered and dented by the blows that had crippled or slain their wearers. And finally, propped against the wall with their butts buried amongst the piled armor, he found lances.

He guided one free of the pile and set its steel-shod foot firmly against the stone floor. Then, clutching it in both hands, he used it to lever himself to his feet. The lance held his weight, though it was slender and light, meant for throwing, not for use as a crutch, and Boromir risked a step with its support. The familiar agony of torn muscles and flesh washed through him, but his own strength and the lance sufficed to keep him upright. He could walk, if not very quickly, and now all that remained was to arm himself.

Boromir limped slowly along the wall, stopping to investigate the contents of the pile every few steps. He knew, in those practical parts of his mind that he chose to ignore for the present, that he could not wield a sword while chained at the wrists with a lance in one hand. Even without the lance, he would be badly hampered by the chains, which gave him only a small range of movement. But the soldier in him felt naked without a sword at his side.

Boromir's knee struck an object protruding from the pile, and he halted yet again, sliding one hand down the shaft of the spear to bring his free hand closer to the barrier in his path. The Orcs in the outer cavern had fallen quiet, no sound but snores carrying through the hide curtain, so the sudden crunch of booted feet on stone seemed hideously loud in his ears. He froze in shock for the space of a breath, then he snatched at the weapon under his hand, not caring what it might be, as the curtain whipped aside and Uglúk strode into the chamber.

The Orc halted just inside the door, as stunned as Boromir by this unexpected meeting. Boromir whirled to face him, leaning heavily on the lance when his leg buckled beneath him, and lifted his unknown weapon. Uglúk started toward him at a full charge, a hissed curse on his lips. Boromir leveled the weapon – an orcish dagger, by the feel of it – to point at his onrushing enemy, but Uglúk swept it aside with one blow of his hand, knocking it from Boromir's hand. Another blow snapped the spear just below Boromir's fist, and he began to fall.

Iron fingers closed about his throat, choking off his breath and lifting his feet from the floor. Boromir struggled in the Orc's grip, fighting the killing grip, while Uglúk shook him like a child's toy. Boromir lifted both hands to claw at his massive arms, only then realizing that he still held the business end of the lance in one hand. The blade struck Uglúk in the side of the head, bringing another curse from him and causing him to tighten his grip still more fiercely.

"Chief?" The call, only dimly heard by Boromir through the rushing of blood in his ears, came from just outside the curtain. "Did you call for something?"

Boromir could feel strength and awareness slipping away from him. He knew that he was dying, that Uglúk would squeeze the life out of him in another moment, but when he heard the Orc's voice snarling a curse at his curious lieutenant, a last, desperate fury took him. He clutched the spear in both hands and, aiming directly for Uglúk's voice, drove it forward with all his waning strength.

The curse turned to a gurgling sigh. Blood gushed hot and foul over Boromir's hands. The fingers round his neck went slack, and he sucked in a grateful breath, just as Uglúk, Captain of the Fighting Uruk-hai, tumbled to the ground, dead. Helpless in his grasp, Boromir fell with him.

**_To be continued…  
  
_**

**Author's End Note:** Before you all threaten me with gruesome death for leaving you with this cliff-hanger, let me say that I am working on Chapter 10 _as we speak!!_ I know it's a dreadful place to stop, but it was the only artistic breaking point in a chapter that would otherwise have run much too long and been very unwieldy. So I apologize, but I promise that the wait will _not_ be long. Honestly.

Okay, now you can threaten me with gruesome death… -- Chevy


	10. Star of the Dúnedain

**Chapter 10: _Star of the Dúnedain_**

Boromir lay sprawled upon Uglúk's body, gasping for breath. He was soaked with the Orc's blood, the smell of it filling his nostrils, the steaming wetness clinging to his face and hands. He knew that his captor, tormentor and sometime companion was dead – slaughtered by his own hands in the very heart of the Orcs' dark kingdom – and that he must bestir himself if he hoped to avoid the same fate. But he could not force his battered, exhausted limbs to move or quiet the rushing in his ears. He could not think beyond the relief of drawing breath.

"Oi! Chief!" It was Dúrbhak again, drawn by the sounds of their scuffle. "What's all the noise about?"

Boromir pushed himself upright and hunted about for his lost weapon. He found it still sticking from Uglúk's gaping mouth and so deeply embedded in the dead Orc's skull that it would require the strength of several men – or of desperation – to pull it free. He abandoned it, knowing that he had neither the time nor the strength to retrieve it.

"That whiteskin giving you trouble? You want me to teach him some manners?" Dúrbhak called, and Boromir could hear the relish in his tone.

He had no weapon to hand, no way to defend himself against an enraged Orc, so Boromir's only hope was to keep the creature from entering the chamber. Filling his aching lungs with all the air they would hold, Boromir pitched his voice low, using the damage done his throat by Uglúk's clutching fingers to roughen and disguise it, and snarled the foulest orcish curse he could bring to mind.

There came a tense pause, then Dúrbhak grumbled, "I only wanted to help," and stomped away, muttering under his breath as he went. Boromir collapsed onto Uglúk's corpse again, shaking in reaction.

How long he lay there he did not know for certain. The body had begun to cool, and the blood on his skin had congealed to a foul, clotted mess by the time he stirred. Pushing himself away from the stiffening corpse, he wiped his hands and face on the cloth of Uglúk's cloak. Then he began to search the body for weapons or useful tools, more to keep himself busy while he formulated a plan than through any hope that the Orc chieftain carried the key to his escape about his person. As he worked, he listened to the sounds that filtered through the curtain, hearing only the snores and grunts of sleeping Orcs.

He found many things tucked into the crevices of Uglúk's armor and the pockets of the rough garments he wore beneath it – things he could not identify, things he did not wish to identify – that he quickly discarded. A pouch of withered leaves that may have been, in some former age, akin to the halflings' pipeweed made him wrinkled his nose in disgust and cough when the evil smell caught at the back of his throat. But it brought Merry so strongly to mind that he felt a pang of longing, even as he tossed it away. A long, double-edged dagger of the kind made by the Dunlendings he laid aside to keep, but he had no belt or sheath in which to carry it.

He was investigating the contents of a small, wooden box taken from a pouch on Uglúk's belt – a tinderbox, by the feel of it – when he heard the sound of weeping. His head snapped up, and he turned instinctively toward the curtain and outer cavern, orienting on the soft noise. It went on and on, miserably, the unmistakable sound of a child sobbing out his heart in loneliness and fear, and almost before he knew what he was about, Boromir began dragging himself toward it.

He left the tinderbox beside Uglúk's body and took the dagger with him, clutched in his left hand, while he levered himself across the floor with his right. The rasping of his body against the stone, littered as it was with garbage and loose gravel, seemed hideously loud in his ears, but the Orcs' snores continued, unabated, and the child's weeping did not falter. At last Boromir reached the curtain and stretched out flat on his stomach, head tilted so that his ear lay just where the hide brushed the floor, listening.

Nothing moved in the great cavern. The snores were thunderous from this close. Boromir knew that a drunken Orc could sleep through a Nazgûl attack, but the knot of fear in his belly would not allow him to touch the curtain and risk disturbing the sleepers with even so slight a sound. Then Borlas gave a woeful sniff and swallowed another sob, so clearly struggling to master his tears that it went to Boromir's heart like a blade, and he could wait in fear no longer.

Still lying flat on the ground, he lifted the lower edge of the curtain. A blast of warmth and foul air struck him in the face, and only his many weeks' familiarity with that stench kept him from retching. A nearby Orc shifted on his stony bed, muttering in his own language, then fell still and added his snores to the rumbling chorus.

Boromir edged forward on his elbows, until his head was through the curtain. He could hear Borlas to his right, the soft sounds very close. Easing his weight off of his elbows, he reached out toward the weeping boy. His fingers touched rusted metal, and he knew he had found the makeshift fence that enclosed the pen – the same fence he had smashed when Uglúk had hurled him against it. This portion of the barrier still stood, and a quick investigation told him that it was formed of broken sword blades, spear shafts and fragments of wood, bound together with rope and half-cured hide.

Sliding his fingers between two of the mismatched posts, he took a firm grip on one and heaved his body closer to the fence. Then he pulled his hand away from the small, uneven gap and put his mouth to it instead. "_Borlas,_" he hissed.

The boy's breathing hitched.

"_Borlas_." He thrust his fingers through the hole once more and wriggled them to attract Borlas' attention.

There came a rustling of limbs and fabric, then a small, claw-like hand closed desperately over Boromir's fingers. "My Lord Steward!" Borlas gasped. "I thought you dead!"

"Be still."

The boy fell quiet, only the harsh rasp of his breathing and the clutch of his fingers betraying his presence. Boromir strained his ears for some telltale noise from the Orcs, but he heard naught but snores.

Putting his mouth to the gap in the fence and holding his whisper to little more than a sigh of breath between his lips, he asked, "Are you bound?"

"Aye."

"Chains?" he asked, praying that his ears had not deceived him, and Borlas wore no metal about him.

"Nay, rope."

Boromir flashed a swift, grim smile of triumph. He tried to pull his hand free of Borlas' grip, but the boy uttered a sob of fear and clung more fiercely to him.

"Do not go, my lord!" he whimpered. "I cannot bear to be alone in this place!"

Boromir gave a soft hiss of warning and whispered, fiercely, "_Be still_."

Borlas obediently choked back his ragged sobs, but his hold on his lord's hand did not ease.

"Let go my hand, Borlas. Trust me."

There came a tense pause, then the clutching fingers opened, and Boromir drew back his hand. He still held the dagger in his other hand, and now he slid its haft through the gap in the fence, flinching when the metal hilts scraped against the rusted iron of the old sword blade. After a moment of startled confusion, Borlas grabbed the dagger from the other side and helped him to work it through the hole.

When the opening was again clear, Boromir leaned close to whisper, "Cut the rope."

"Aye," Borlas breathed, and Boromir heard him begin to saw at the tough rope with the blade.

It took the boy an agonizingly long time to cut through the rope, so weak were his arms, but he kept at it, while Boromir listened to the sounds the Orcs made as they slept and wondered how deep their drunken stupor was. Could he walk through the cavern to the main tunnel beyond without waking them? And if he made it to the tunnel, how would he find his way out of the orc burrows? The Uruk-hai knew these passages as well as Boromir knew the streets of Minas Tirith. They would find it a simple matter to hunt down, catch and slaughter two slaves stumbling about in the dark.

Boromir was still turning over the various possibilities in his mind, when he heard Borlas give a grunt of satisfaction and rise to his feet. Boromir whispered fiercely, "The knife!" but Borlas paid him no heed.

The boy moved, not toward Boromir but away from him, toward the main cavern and the mass of Orcs sleeping there. Boromir opened his mouth to protest but stopped himself when he heard light, sure feet treading carefully on loose boards. Then he remembered the broken fence.

With triumph surging up in him again, Boromir got his elbows under him and edged back through the curtain, crawling as silently as he could manage on the loose gravel. When the curtain fell closed in front of his face, cutting off the flow of warm, foul air from the outer cavern, he rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright.

He had barely time enough to catch his balance before the curtain flew aside and another body collided with his, nearly pitching him over backward.

"My lord!" Borlas cried.

Painfully thin arms went about his waist, and a damp face pressed into his midriff, as Borlas gave a single strangled gasp and burst into tears. Boromir lifted his chained hands over Borlas' head and wrapped his arms around the trembling, sobbing boy.

They sat for long minutes, Borlas clinging tightly to Boromir and weeping into his shirt, while Boromir held him in silent comfort. Finally, the boy made an effort to master himself. Lifting his head, he sniffed loudly and murmured,

"I beg your pardon, lord."

"Do not." Boromir stroked the filthy hair back from Borlas' face with one hand, and he felt no surprise in himself at the ease of the gesture.

"I forget my place."

"Nay, Borlas. Had I the eyes to do it with, I too would weep." He felt the thin shoulders convulse with fresh sobs and hardened himself against the urge to comfort the boy further. Catching Borlas by the arms, he pushed him firmly away and said, "Have done with tears and listen to me."

Borlas sniffed loudly and wiped at his face with his sleeve. "I am done."

"Uglúk is dead, and we must be gone or we will soon join him."

"Gone where?"

"Home."

Borlas clutched suddenly at Boromir's sleeve, and asked, breathlessly, "Can we truly go home, my lord? Do you know the way?"

"I will find it." And in that moment, Boromir knew that he would. That he must. "I will not let you die in this place. I will find the way home, but I cannot do it alone."

Boromir could sense Borlas straightening his back, bracing himself and gathering his courage to meet his lord's demands. "Tell me what I must do."

"Is there light enough in the cave for you to see by?"

"Nay. 'Tis black as pitch in here."

"Then you must light a fire. Uglúk had a tinderbox about him. I left it by his body." Borlas stiffened and gave a choke of distress. Boromir reached to find his arm, closing his fingers about it in a steadying clasp. "He is dead and cannot harm you. Do not fear him."

Borlas swallowed audibly and murmured, the quaver in his voice belying his words, "I do not."

"Good." Letting go Borlas' arm, he groped for the lower edge of the curtain, whispering, "Once I lift the curtain, make no sound and speak no word. The Orcs will hear. Only find the tinderbox and what kindling you can, and get a fire lit. Then we shall see what weapons old Uglúk has left us."

Boromir waited only to hear Borlas' soft assent, then he lifted the hide curtain and let firelight spill into the cave from the main cavern. Borlas climbed to his feet and moved uncertainly toward the back of the chamber, hesitating where Boromir judged Uglúk's body to lie. He waited there in silence so long that Boromir began to fear he would not have the courage to approach and retrieve the tinderbox. But even as the man gathered his own strength of will to leave the doorway and drag himself across the cave once more to help the frightened boy, he caught the furtive pad of bare feet and the faint scrape of wood against stone as Borlas lifted the box.

Boromir breathed a soundless sigh of relief and let himself sag against the wall at his back, propping his forearm on his bent knee to support it. His arm trembled with the effort of holding up the curtain, reminding him of his own disgraceful weakness, his unfitness to attempt such a task as he had set himself. He had killed Uglúk. He had promised Borlas escape. Now he had no choice but to go forward, though every passing moment deepened his certainty that the plan taking shape in his mind was reckless folly, born of desperation and doomed to failure. He must go forward or die in ignominy and despair, taking an innocent boy with him.

The sharp clink of flint striking steel reached Boromir, drawing him out of his dark thoughts and bringing his head up to listen. It came again, more loudly, followed at length by the faint crackle of flames. Boromir abruptly dropped the curtain, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so, grateful to have even so flimsy a barrier between himself and the Orcs. Then he began pulling himself across the floor, toward Borlas and the fire.

Borlas pattered up behind him and slipped his small arms under Boromir's, struggling to lift him. "Let me help you, lord."

"Nay. Find me a staff, Borlas, and fetch my cloak."

Borlas hurried to obey, making far more noise than Boromir would have liked, and by the time Boromir neared the fire was there to meet him with a sturdy lance and the ragged remains of his cloak.

Boromir accepted them from his page's hands and sat, running his fingers up the length of the spear shaft, marshalling his thoughts. At last he lifted his head to confront the boy kneeling so expectantly before him. "It is time for us to speak plainly, Borlas, to face the truth without fear. Can you do this?"

"Aye. I am not afraid anymore."

"That is well. There is a way out of these mountains for us, I deem, but we cannot leave this nest of Orcs alive behind us. If we do, they will hunt us down and slaughter us, with no Uglúk to soften their rage with reason. Then they will take their swords and their exploding fire to Rohan, to the villages and cots of the Westfold, and there do great harm ere Éomer King can destroy them."

Borlas swallowed nervously. "We must kill them," he whispered. "All of them."

Boromir nodded.

"How will you do it, lord? Stab them as they lie sleeping?"

Boromir could not help smiling at that, though he saw little humor in their predicament. "They are not so drunk as all that, I fear."

"How, then?"

"We will use the weapons of Saruman against them. Uglúk once boasted that he kept enough of the Wizard's black powder in this cave to blow the top off of Caradhras." He smiled again, with even less humor than before, and added, "I do hope it was merely boasting, for if the old villain spoke true, then we will die along with our captors."

"You mean to blow the peaks off the mountains?" Borlas whispered in awe.

"I mean to destroy the Uruk-hai. What else may happen I know not."

Boromir could feel the boy shivering and hear the breath hiss between his teeth. He reached out and clasped one thin, chill arm in fingers as wasted, cold and filthy as Borlas' own, hoping that their touch could still lend strength to another when they had naught of their own.

Borlas shivered again and asked, in a small voice, "Think you this black powder will burn hot enough to kill all the Orcs?"

"Aye."

"Then I will not fear. I will die with you, my lord Steward, if that be my duty and my privilege."

"Let us not talk of death, just yet. Let us lay our trap and pray that fortune will smile on us this once." Tightening his hold on Borlas' arm, Boromir urged the boy to his feet and gripped his staff in preparation to stand with him. "See you the barrels stacked to the left of the doorway?"

"Aye."

"Those are full of Saruman's black powder." Boromir heaved himself awkwardly to his feet, leaning hard on both the staff and Borlas' thin shoulder, then he paused to catch his breath while pain coursed through him and his head swam sickeningly. Borlas' clutch on his arm steadied him, and Borlas' voice called him back to himself.

"There are but six of them, lord. How can such small barrels, and so few, kill all those Orcs?"

"I know not," Boromir gasped, "but a single glass vial of that powder killed a Rider and knocked me into oblivion long enough for the Uruks to take us. We can only trust that six barrels of it will cook the Orcs in their beds."

"And us," Borlas added, dubiously.

"Mayhap." Boromir let go Borlas' shoulder, unable to use his staff properly and keep hold of the boy with his hands manacled, and ventured a step away from the fire. "But if my ears have not deceived me all this while, there is a tunnel that leads from this cave to a nearby stream."

"I know that stream!" Borlas exclaimed, forgetting for the moment that he dared not speak above a whisper and earning him a warning hiss from Boromir. Dropping his voice again, he added, "I have fetched water from it often enough."

"Through this cave?"

"Nay, from the main passage that the Orcs use. The stream crosses it."

Boromir halted his slow progress and lifted his head, straining to catch the familiar, almost forgotten sound of running water. "There is a tunnel somewhere in this cave. Can you see it?"

"I…" Borlas mumbled, hesitating.

"It _must_ be here," Boromir insisted, his voice soft but fierce. "From the first moment I came to this place, I heard the music of moving water. I know it is here."

Excusing himself with a word, Borlas left Boromir standing alone in the middle of the floor and pattered away. Boromir heard him shifting something on the wall opposite the doorway, then a long silence. He dared not call out to the boy, but he was twitching with impatience when Borlas finally returned.

"I have found it, lord," Borlas whispered, slipping up beside Boromir and clasping his arm. "I cannot see far along it, but I can hear the stream. 'Tis close."

The knot of fear in Boromir's stomach eased. His hope had not betrayed him; the path to freedom lay open. Taking a firmer grip on his staff, he started once more toward the stacked barrels.

The barrels of black powder proved small enough for Borlas to get his arms around them, but heavy. The boy abandoned the attempt to lift one when it nearly slipped from his grasp. "I cannot, my lord," he gasped, struggling to push the barrel back into its place atop another, before it fell.

Boromir dropped his staff, leaned his weight against the wall for support and caught the barrel in both hands. Slowly, clenching his teeth against the pain in his wounded leg, he lowered the barrel to the floor. Then he straightened up, breathing hard.

"I will lift them," he said, when he could master his voice. "You roll them to the doorway."

"Aye, lord."

"But _quietly_, Borlas," he urged, when he heard the barrel's rim begin to crunch over the stone.

He waited until Borlas had moved off, grunting under his breath as he struggled to steer the barrel around the litter and gravel that would make its progress too noisy, then Boromir shifted to the next stack. He lifted the second barrel down and was placing himself to reach the third, when his right foot came down on something hard and sharp.

Boromir's first impulse was to jerk his foot away and curse this fresh source of pain, but he controlled it. He felt cold, clean facets bite into his flesh, the sensation so familiar that it brought a gasp of recognition from him. In the next breath, he dropped to one knee on the floor, searching the rough stone with his fingers, wounds and weakness forgotten in his sudden, blazing hope.

He touched a thin line of chill metal – a chain – snaking over the floor, and caught it between his fingertips. Lifting it, he felt a solid weight swinging from it, and he turned his hand so the dangling object fell into his palm. A sob rose in his throat, and tears that he could not shed gathered to choke him. Closing his fist tightly about the small, perfect gem, Boromir pressed his lips to the backs of his fingers where the chain twisted around them. Hope and gratitude welled up in him, burning in his throat and aching in his chest, while the warmth of Aragorn's presence flowed out of the hidden place deep within him to thaw the coldness from around his heart.

He had almost forgotten that his king was with him. He had almost succumbed to despair, even as he struggled to gain his freedom. But the white gem in his hand was proof that he was not alone, that Aragorn had never left him, that hope was not a lie and escape not merely a fool's dream. He had the Star of the Dúnedain to light his steps, though no eyes but his could see that light.

"My lord?" Borlas sounded frightened, his voice a small, hesitant whisper in the fetid darkness. "Are you ill?"

Boromir lifted his head and turned toward the boy, his hand opening to show him the gem that lay glittering on his palm. Borlas' utter silence spoke eloquently of his shock and confusion.

"He told me that I could summon the stars at need," Boromir rasped out, his throat roughened by his unshed tears. "He gave me this as a reminder of it." Reaching up with both hands to catch the boy's head between them, Boromir pulled him close and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then he gave him a slight shake and said, "The stars are with us, Borlas."

"Is that a star?" Borlas asked, wonderingly.

"Aye. Come, let us hurry."

Pushing himself once more to his feet, Boromir wrapped the broken chain about the manacle on his left wrist, so that the gem hung against the back of his hand. Then, thrusting aside all awareness of his body's frailty, he set himself to the task of moving the heavy barrels. He paid no heed to the throb of agony in his leg or the weakness of his arms. The time had come to act upon his plan, to be the warrior Borlas believed him to be, to fight his way to freedom and think not on failure or despair.

A grim, weary time later, Boromir took the last barrel from Borlas hands and lifted it onto the new pile they had made just inside the curtain. Stacked three high, the barrels of black powder nearly filled the archway. Boromir gave himself a moment to rest, then he sent Borlas scrambling for his cloak and any other bits of fabric and tinder lying about the cave. These they wedged tightly about the base of the pile, stuffing the cloak into the cracks between barrels and placing fragments of wood over the fabric. When the tinder was laid to Boromir's satisfaction, he drew back to where Borlas' small fire still smoldered in the middle of the cave.

Borlas stood beside him, regarding their efforts curiously. "What next, lord?"

"We light it, and we leave."

"How long 'til it burns through to the black powder?"

"I know not, but the wood is sound, the barrels well-made. Let us hope they burn slowly."

They both fell quiet, as Boromir pondered the enormity of what they were about to do. He felt no pity for the Orcs. The only creature among them who had shown him aught of compassion already lay dead; the rest were bloody, foul, and conscienceless animals, deserving only of death. But the sheer, impersonal brutality of what he planned was sobering.

To slaughter an entire community by tossing a brand onto a pile of rags… Mayhap to blow the very peak off the mountain. If a single Man – blind, wounded, chained, with only a child to aide him – could do so much with such weapons, what might not a King do? Or a wizard? Or an Orc chieftain? What might not Uglúk have done, given one year more to think on it? A cold finger of dread went down Boromir's neck, and he shivered. Mayhap it was best that he destroy Saruman's stockpile, regardless of how many died in the attempt, Orc and Man.

Turning to Borlas, he said, very softly, "'Tis time. Wait until I have gained the tunnel, then thrust a brand into the pile and follow swiftly."

He did not wait to hear Borlas' soft murmur of assent, but turned at once toward the sound that had beckoned and taunted him for so long, just out of his reach. The sound of water. He limped as fast as his battered and drained body could manage, across the cave, into the smaller tunnel, where the air was cold and thin, with no trace of orcish foulness to taint it, and the stream's soft chuckling seemed to beckon him on. The floor sloped gently downward beneath his feet. The air grew ever colder. His left shoulder brushed stone, warning him that the tunnel curved, and he turned with it. Still no sound came from the cave behind him, no whisper of movement from Borlas.

The ground sloped more steeply downhill, and the stone felt damp to his bare feet. Boromir could hear nothing but the rush and gurgle of the stream, which he guessed could be no more than a few dozen paces along the passage. He halted, head lifted, straining for a telltale sound from the cave.

He was on the point of turning back, when he caught the light patter of feet on stone and Borlas came around the bend in the tunnel, breathing hard with excitement. Boromir smelled smoke and felt heat on his face, as Borlas stepped up beside him and took his free arm in one clawlike hand.

"What is that you carry?" Boromir demanded.

"A brand to light our way, at least as far as to the stream," the boy answered, sounding highly pleased with himself for his ingenuity.

"Lead on then, Master Torchbearer, and quickly."

Together, they moved down the rough passage to where it ended on the stony banks of a small underground stream. The noises here were confusing to Boromir, surrounded as they were by bare rock and branching tunnels, with the broken surface of the roof reflecting the sound in every direction. He halted, daunted by the chaos he could not sort cleanly in his mind.

Borlas took another step forward, his feet splashing in the stream, then lifted his torch to look about him. "The tunnel ends here, my lord. We are trapped!"

"Nay, the stream is our path, Borlas. It will lead us out." Or down into the very bowels of the earth, Boromir added to himself, but he squelched that thought before the boy could sense his doubt. "Follow the current."

Borlas clasped Boromir's arm and guided him the long step down, into the freezing waters of the stream. "What if it takes us to a great, underground lake at the mountains' roots?" he asked, as he started forward, obeying the tug of the current against his legs.

"Then we will turn around and follow it the other way," Boromir answered with a certainty he did not feel. "But think you of the streams and rivers of Anórien. Always they flow down from the mountains, out of the dales and valleys at their feet, seeking the lower ground."

"But…"

Boromir gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze to silence him, then shifted his hand back to his makeshift staff. He needed both hands on the spear shaft to support him now, so exhausted was he by their labors. Clenching his teeth against the persistent agony of his wound, he dragged himself forward through the chill water, following the gurgling footsteps of his page.

"I knew a man once," he said, forcing the words out to hold back the looming darkness, though his voice sounded weak and breathless in his own ears, "my father's Master at Arms, who chased his hunting dog into the caves beneath the White Mountains. Three days he was lost, with nothing to eat but the stale bread in his pouch and the raw meat of the dog's kill. He would have died there, and none the wiser, had he not stumbled into a stream such as this and followed it out again. I saw the crack in the earth through which he crawled and the water flowing fromit, leaping down through the vale to the river below… water gleaming and dancing in the sunlight…"

A sudden trembling in the rock beneath his feet brought Boromir to an abrupt halt. He dropped his staff and reached for Borlas.

"My lord!" Borlas cried, clutching at his arms in panic.

Boromir pulled the boy roughly against him and fell awkwardly to one knee in the water. A low rumbling filled the air, seeming to come from the rock itself, and the ground lurched again, more violently.

"Hold fast, Borlas!" he shouted, even as a tremendous rush of heat struck him a hammer-blow in the back and sent him sprawling on his face with Borlas pinned beneath him. He felt an instant of searing pain, then his head cracked against stone and he tumbled into darkness.

* * *

The rain clouds had at last blown away and the sun come out of hiding. Aragorn felt the warmth of it on his neck, as he bent low, his eyes searching the muddy ground all about the broken thorn bush. He was glad of the brief respite from rain, but in the unexpected heat his damp hunting leathers turned rank and clammy. Thrusting all awareness of his own discomfort from his mind, he concentrated on the small patch of dirt and scree before him.

"'Twas torn from a shirt, I warrant, and a fine one," Faramir said.

Aragorn grunted a wordless assent, his keen eyes lifting briefly to the scrap of white cloth caught on one wicked thorn. Then he returned to his fruitless task. Even well beneath the bush, the earth had been so thoroughly watered that no sign of who or what had passed here remained, save the shred of cloth and the bent, splintered branches of the thorn bush. At last, he sat back on his haunches and gazed up at the Elf and Man standing over him.

"Some creature passed through this thicket, headed east and north toward the mountains' feet, that much is certain."

"The Orcs of the Misty Mountains do not wear linen shirts," Legolas said.

"Nay, but their captives do."

Rising to his feet, Aragorn lifted a hand to shade his eyes and looked back at the remains of Boromir's camp, marked by a ring of lances, their bright pennons just visible through the trees. Then he turned, following the supposed path of the marauding Orcs, from camp to thicket and on toward a deep, roughhewn valley that seemed to cut into the very roots of the mountains.

Nodding toward the valley, he said, "If they did not turn aside, the way into their burrows must lie yonder."

"And if they did?" Faramir asked.

"We will answer that question when we must. Let us search the valley and…" Aragorn broke off abruptly, as the ground beneath him shuddered and an ominous sound, like the muttering of distant thunder, reached his ears.

"Earth tremor!" Legolas cried, and he leapt easily onto a pile of boulders, heedless of how the rock trembled beneath his feet.

Faramir and Aragorn stood poised, their feet braced against the shifting of the ground, their eyes moving instinctively toward the mountains, with their lofty peaks and snow-clad slopes. After a long, tense moment, the ground stilled and the thunder beneath their feet died away. They both breathed quiet sighs of relief and smiled at one another, their eyes reflecting an unease they would not voice.

"A small one," Legolas said, from his high perch. "It did not disturb the mountain."

"All the same, I am glad we were not under the mountain when it came," Faramir said, wryly. "Call me coward if you will, but I like not such grumblings and shakings, either under my boots or over my head."

"Nor I." Aragorn gave the looming peak one more long, thoughtful look, then let his gaze slide down its flank to the valley that was their goal. The sun was at its zenith, shining fully on the frosted peaks of the mountains but not yet far enough to the west to strike the folded depths of the valley. The cool shadows played tricks on Aragorn's eyes, dazzled as they were by the brilliance of the sunlit snow above, and he fancied that he saw something moving lazily in the air. Something drifting up from the very feet of the mountain. He watched it, wondering, and then in the next breath was leaping up the rocks to where Legolas stood.

"What see you, Master Elf? There, at the valley's head?" he called as he climbed.

Legolas narrowed his eyes and peered intently at the dark plume, now rising above the protecting sides of the valley and streaming south on the wind. "Smoke. And birds… nay, bats! The mountain smokes, driving the creatures from their sleep and into the sunlight!"

"My lord!" Faramir called, his voice sharp with urgency. "My lord, look! To the south!"

Aragorn turned swiftly to look where Faramir pointed and saw another plume of smoke rising into the air. "That is where the stream comes forth. But the Orcs' road lay that way," he pointed at the thinning smoke to the north, "and so must ours."

Leaping down from the heap of boulders, Aragorn clapped Faramir on the shoulder and turned to sweep the ground to the east with his keen gaze. "Choose those men who are swiftest of foot and longest of eye, and send them to that valley as advance scouts. They must find and mark the door, ere the sun sets."

"And for the rest?" Faramir asked, his manner as carefully controlled as ever but his building excitement betrayed by the fierce light in his eyes and the pallor of his cheeks.

"We return to camp and prepare for a march upon the Uruk-hai. The main force leaves at first light."

"You are certain we will find a way into the mountains at the head of that valley?"

"I am. Go, Faramir, swiftly. The scouts must lose no time or they will lose the light."

Faramir nodded once, saluted, and strode away to do his king's bidding.

Legolas joined Aragorn on the ground, but his gaze lingered on the dark smudge that marked their goal. "You are certain?"

"As certain as mortal man can be, and my heart will brook no more doubt or delay." He gave his friend a strained smile and added, "If we move swiftly, mayhap we will meet Gimli as he comes in the southern door and save him the effort of clearing out the Orcs' nest."

"The Dwarf will not thank you for that."

"I will save one for his axe – a particularly large one."

Legolas chuckled softly to himself, thinking of Gimli and his patent disapproval at riding so fast and laboring so hard for the pleasure of killing but one Uruk. Still smiling, he fell in beside Aragorn and turned his steps toward the camp.

* * *

The shock of icy water pouring down his throat, into his lungs, brought Boromir back to himself with a lurch. He reared up, struggling to breathe, then collapsed onto his side with a curse and began to cough. The air was thick and foul with smoke, still uncomfortably hot against his skin, and it burned his throat where the water of the stream had chilled it a moment before. Every part of him hurt, from his splitting head to his throbbing leg, and he felt as if his back had been flayed raw. He lay for a moment, stunned by mingled amazement that he yet lived and horror at what power he had unleashed, until full awareness and memory returned to him.

Springing upright, he groped about in the shallow stream until he felt a chill, slippery arm under his hand. He snatched at it and pulled with all his strength, hauling the limp body of his page across his lap.

"Borlas!" he gasped, still choking on water and smoke. "Borlas, wake up!"

The boy did not stir. Boromir placed a hand flat on his chest and waited, holding his own breath in fear, until he felt the slender cage of bone slowly rise and knew that Borlas lived, then he let the air out of his lungs on a groan.

"What do I do with you now, boy?" he asked the unknowing page. "Drag you all the way to Edoras?"

He lifted his hands to clutch at his head, fighting pain and despair and the creeping lethargy of the deep cold in his limbs. A familiar weight fell against his forearm, and he reached for the gem that hung from his manacle with his other hand, holding it tightly until he felt the sharp facets dig into his flesh. With its touch, a kind of weary, resolute defiance filled him. It was not precisely strength, but in his extremity, Boromir knew that it would serve him nearly as well.

"So be it," he muttered. "I said that I would find the way home, and I will, if I have to crawl out of this filthy hole."

Borlas gave no answer, but Boromir had expected none and did not hesitate. Tearing a sleeve from Borlas' ragged shirt, he used it to bind the boy's wrists together, then he pulled the looped arms over his own head. Borlas now lay inert against Boromir's chest, with his thin arms stretched up to clasp the man's neck. With the small body resting so trustingly against his own, Boromir could feel the labored breaths shake it and the cold seeping into it. Borlas did not have much strength left in him, and Boromir regretted the harsh treatment he must mete out to the ill, mayhap dying child, but he could find no other way to bring them both out of this miserable place. He had no reserves of strength of his own to call upon, naught but the force of his own will and a stubborn refusal to die, and he could only hope that Borlas had a measure of that stubbornness as well.

Heaving himself forward, onto his hands and one knee, Boromir let Borlas' weight fall away from him until the boy lay on his back in the stream, his head and shoulders lifted from the water by the pull of his bound arms. Then he slowly, painfully, began to drag himself and the deadweight hanging from his neck forward, following the stream's current toward freedom. Or so he hoped.

How long his nightmare journey lasted, Boromir had no way of knowing. He crawled through an endless, freezing, pain-shot darkness with no awareness of where he went or how he managed to make his limbs move again… and yet again. The cold both helped and hindered him, making him slow and clumsy even as it numbed the agony in his leg and allowed his mind to separate itself from the torture of his body.

Twice, when he feared that Borlas had stopped breathing, he climbed out of the stream, finding a dry ledge or boulder on which to sit, and chafed at the boy's chill limbs until they warmed slightly under his hands. Then he lowered himself once more into that icy current and crawled onward.

Several times he ran headfirst into an outcropping of rock or a low place in the tunnel roof, bloodying his face and jolting himself more fully awake with the pain of it. And for an agonizing, terrifying time, he had to wriggle through an ever-shrinking hole, with his face half in the water and his raw back scraping on the stone above. He shoved Borlas ahead of him, praying that the water was not deep enough to wash over the unconscious boy's face but helpless to aid him if it did.

When at last he squeezed through a jagged crack and found himself in a wide cavern, Boromir flung himself down on the bank of the stream and rolled out of the water, where he collapsed on the harsh stone floor, holding Borlas tightly to him and shaking in reaction. Borlas still breathed – far too slowly and with too much effort, but he breathed – and this alone goaded Boromir back into that hellish stream once again.

So far gone in cold and exhaustion was he that Boromir almost missed the moment that they passed out of the mountain. He was struggling around a fall of rocks in the stream, too drained even to curse at the obstacle they posed, when he felt a thin, fugitive warmth touch his face. He lifted his hands to grope his way around the largest rock, hunting for the middle of the current and ignoring the brief caress of warmth on his face. Then he heard, clear and unmistakable in its ugliness, the cawing of a rook. He paused. His head came up slowly, wearily, and he tasted the air.

Sunlight. It was sunlight, not flame, he felt against his skin. From the deep recesses of his mind, Boromir dredged up the memory of sunlight, of clean wind, of fresh air and Autumn rains and the smell of damp earth. They were all about him now, flowing with the shaft of sunlight into his dark, dank, fetid prison and beckoning him forward. In that same deep place where beloved memories lived, a part of Boromir began to weep in wild, frantic joy. But outwardly, he merely lowered his head again, leaned into the dragging weight about his neck, and forced his limbs to move.

* * *

"Lord Elfstone!"

Aragorn had not yet gained the top of the ridge when the call came, forcing him to halt his climb and turn back to acknowledge the man hailing him from below. It was one of Faramir's Rangers, detailed to run errands for Arwen while she cleaned and stowed Aragorn's gear for the march. Aragorn lifted his hand in a signal for the man to speak.

"Your lady Queen would know if you have your silver flask about you, or if she should look for it among the baggage!"

Aragorn clapped a hand to the pouch at his belt to be certain the flask rested within in it, though he knew already it was there. The flask held his dwindling store of _miruvor_, now trebly precious since those of the Eldar who knew the secret of its making had forsaken Middle-earth. No more than a few swallows now remained, and Aragorn kept it always near him.

"I have it!" he called down to the Ranger. "Tell my lady that she need not find a place for it in my pack; I will carry it!"

The man signaled his understanding and slipped back into the shelter of the trees, leaving Aragorn alone again. He resumed his climb up the steep gully, grabbing at moss-covered rocks and the few hardy plants that sprouted along the banks of the stream, his feet slipping on the muddy slope. Several of his company had come this way in the last hours, as all those who were to march with him on the morrow filled their water skins, cleaned clothing and gear, or simply explored the lonely countryside as a way of keeping their minds off of the dark road ahead. The waters of the stream were muddied by their hands and the banks slippery from the pressure of many boots, making his climb all the more dirty and difficult.

Aragorn, like his men, felt the cold breath of the Misty Mountains upon his neck, unsettling his thoughts, and he found that he could not sit idly in his tent while the last hours of the day crept by him. Nor could he, with his customary efficiency, cope with the many details of tomorrow's campaign. Unquiet of mind, restless of body, troubled of heart, he sought the only kind of solace and peace a Ranger of the North knew – to stretch his long legs over open ground, prowling the wilderness, until his strides had out-paced his worries.

With this goal in mind, he left the preparations in Faramir's capable hands and made for the high ground at the top of the ridge, where he hoped to lose himself in the tumbled rocks, gnarled thickets and hidden gullies of that unforgiving land. But it seemed that he was doomed to drag his kingly duties with him like so many chains. The messenger from the Queen was the third such who had accosted him on his progress from camp to ridge, and even as he pulled himself over the lip of the gully, onto flat ground, he heard yet another voice call out to him.

"Aragorn!"

Smothering a sigh of annoyance, he waited for Legolas to leap nimbly up the slope that he had scaled a moment before with such effort, and nodded a greeting as the Elf stepped up beside him.

"You have the look of a man thwarted in his escape," Legolas remarked, his eyes full of sympathy. "Shall I take myself off again?"

Aragorn smiled fleetingly. "I am ill company, my friend. I feel more the Ranger today than the King, and my royal robes chafe me."

"Then I'll not keep you. You need only know that those men detailed to stay behind and guard the camp have been chosen, much to their chagrin, and that Faramir has persuaded Éowyn to remain with Arwen."

Aragorn gave a grunt of humorless laughter and said, "Let us hope he also thought to hide her sword." Then he asked, with a hint of bitterness in his voice, "Is there aught else that demands the King's attention?"

"Nay. I have a host of messages for you, but none are pressing."

With a nod and a faint smile of thanks, Aragorn turned his back on the camp and his old friend, calling over his shoulder as he strode away, "Do not look for me 'til dusk!"

He walked for five minutes in solitude, following the course of the stream along the upper bank, occasionally leaving the stream to avoid small parties of men returning to camp with water skins slung on their shoulders. The sun, though dropping low toward the trees and obscured now and then by clouds, was warm enough to make him sweat in his close leathers, and after he had covered a fair bit of ground, he made for the stream again. Sliding down a muddy bank on his heels, he crouched over a clear pool to drink.

His hand, cupped to hold water, was halfway to his mouth when he heard the shrill cry.

"_My lord King!_"

He let fall his hand and swore under his breath.

"_My lord King, come quickly! My lord!_"

This time, Aragorn recognized the voice and heard the edge of panic in it. He responded without thinking, leaping to his feet and starting upstream at a run.

"_Bergil?_" he called, as he ran.

"Here, my lord!"

Abandoning the choked and treacherous bank of the stream, Aragorn plunged into the water. It was shallow, not rising above the tops of his boots, but he splashed recklessly through it, sending icy water splashing in every direction, including into his breeches and boots. By the time he rounded a shoulder of mossy rock to find Bergil, he was well soaked from the middle of his thighs down, and his feet were beginning to tingle with the cold.

The young man knelt upon the southern bank of the stream, where the gully widened to create a small patch of damp, stony ground. A body lay before him - the body of a Man in torn breeches and a ragged, filthy shirt that may once have been white - the head and shoulders resting on the muddy bank and the long legs trailing in the stream where the bare feet showed starkly blue-white. Bergil held another body in his arms, that of a child so thin that he looked like no more than a bundle of dry sticks, and he cradled a dark head against his shoulder.

Bergil's head came around with a snap, his grey eyes wide and blank with shock as they met Aragorn's. "My Lord!" he gasped, his voice a lash of dread against Aragorn's flesh.

With a wordless cry, Aragorn flung himself the last few paces to the stream's bank toward the still body of his Steward. He did not need to see Boromir's face to know that it was he. The horror in Bergil's eyes and the agonizing twist of recognition in his own innards were enough. It was Boromir. It was his dearest friend, his partner in rule, his brother at heart and at arms…

He dropped to his knees in a freezing puddle and bent to look, at long last, into that beloved face. For a blissful moment, he saw naught of wounds, illness or approaching death. He saw only Boromir, and a joyous, incredulous pain flooded him.

"Boromir," he murmured.

"I found them… lying together at the water's edge," Bergil said in a ghostly whisper. "I had to cut Borlas' hands free to part them."

Aragorn glanced up briefly from Boromir's face to see Bergil's eyes fixed pleadingly upon him. "Your brother?" he asked.

Bergil nodded. "He breathes, but there is no warmth in him."

"Wrap him in your cloak," Aragorn ordered. "Keep him close to your body."

As he turned back to Boromir, the veil of wonder was torn from Aragorn's eyes, and he saw his friend as he truly was. Wasted by hunger and illness, his cheeks deathly white, his lips blue with cold; a blackened wound in his thigh and fresh gashes on his face that bled sluggishly; an iron collar about his neck and manacles at his wrists, the flesh torn and bruised beneath the harsh metal. Where before Aragorn had seen only the man he knew and loved so well, he now saw only suffering, and another sort of pain filled him, making his eyes sting with tears.

"Ah, Boromir," he breathed, reaching for the place beneath Boromir's jaw where his blood ran close to the skin and wincing when his fingers brushed the cold iron about his throat. He had to close his eyes and concentrate, straining all his senses to find the slow pulse of life in Boromir's veins, but it was there. His heart still labored within him.

Throwing off both wonder and horror, Aragorn scrambled to lift Boromir's feet from the cold waters of the stream. He unclasped his cloak and spread it over the other man, taking care to wrap it close about his chilled limbs. As he worked, he spoke to Bergil in a low, urgent tone.

"Take Borlas back to camp and give him to the Lady Arwen. She will know how to care for him. Tell her I need a litter and blankets. And tell Prince Faramir that his brother is found." At that, he glanced up to find Bergil's haunted gaze fixed upon him. "Go, Bergil, swiftly. Every moment is precious, if you would save your brother and his lord."

Bergil sprang to his feet and lifted Borlas' wasted body in his arms, gathering the trailing ends of his cloak firmly about the boy, but he hesitated to leave King and Steward. "Will Prince Boromir live?" he asked.

"I know not."

"What of… what of the others who were with them? There were six men…"

"I know not, Bergil, but our best hope of finding them is to ask Boromir where to look." He glanced up at the young man. "And if Boromir dies, he cannot tell us."

With a nod of understanding, Bergil spun away and splashed into the stream. Aragorn did not bother to mark his going but bent once more over his friend.

Gently, with a care to keeping the cloak swathed about him, Aragorn lifted Boromir from the mud, pulling his still body close and resting its weight against his own breast. The Steward felt as light and fragile as a child in his arms, his tall, proud frame wasted to a shadow of its former strength and the commanding, fiery spirit that had once animated it sunk into cold ashes. Aragorn shuddered at the feel of him and tightened his hold protectively.

Freeing one hand, he pulled the silver flask from his belt and worked the stopper loose with his teeth. Then he tilted the flask to Boromir's lips and coaxed a bit of liquid between them. The _miruvor_ ran uselessly from the corners of his mouth, into his beard.

Bowing his head to bring his voice closer to the injured man, Aragorn murmured, "Come, Boromir, drink. 'Tis _miruvor_. It will warm you." He poured another tiny dram of the priceless cordial into Boromir's mouth and urged, "Will you not drink for me? One swallow only. For me, for Aragorn..."

He heard a slight choking sound and saw Boromir's throat move, as he swallowed the mouthful of Elvish liquor. Aragorn swallowed himself, trying to clear the thickness from his throat, then he whispered, hoarsely, "Now, wake."

A slight tinge of color stole into Boromir's deathly pale cheeks, and his lips moved, forming soundless words, but in the next breath, he fell still again.

"Nay, Boromir, do not sleep! You must not sleep!" Setting aside the flask, he laid his hand on Boromir's brow then slid it down to cover his eyes. "The cold will take you if you surrender to it. You must do as I say. You must obey your king. Wake, Boromir, and speak to me!"

He began to rock with the rhythm of his frenzied words, unable to contain the urgency of his need and unable to help his friend in any more tangible way. "I charge you, as you love me, wake! You have not come all this way to fail me now, Boromir! _Boromir!_"

The lifeless body in his arms did not move, yet Aragorn felt a tremor pass through it, felt the exhausted lungs strive to expand more fully and draw a deeper breath. A barely perceptible sigh of pain passed Boromir's cold lips, and Aragorn uttered a cry of relief.

"That is not enough," he said, sternly, as he laid Boromir back against the ground and scrambled down to kneel at his feet. "I want to hear your voice. I _command_ you, Boromir, as your king and your friend, wake up and speak to me!"

Reaching beneath the folds of the cloak, he grasped one of Boromir's bare feet and began to chafe it. The flesh was deathly cold and lifeless beneath his fingers, and he rubbed hard in a desperate bid to bring warmth and blood to it again.

"This cursed cold…" He switched to the other foot and continued rubbing. "Where is the help Bergil was to summon? Where are those blankets? I must get you warm and dry, or I will have no chance to mend your hurts. How long have you lain in this water, I wonder? And where is Faramir?" He glanced up at Boromir's face, then winced at the sight of his ruined eyes turned up to the sky. For himself, Aragorn felt no horror at the scars his steward bore, but he had grown so accustomed to Boromir covering them to spare the feelings and stomachs of others that the exposed eyes were nearly as hurtful to look upon as the fresh wounds on his face. Aragorn silently promised himself that he would bind them up, as Boromir preferred, at the first opportunity. But for the present, his steward's life mattered more than his pride.

The sound of booted feet pounding over stone and mud reached Aragorn, and he twisted around to peer over his shoulder without halting his ministrations. "Faramir?" he called, knowing that Boromir's brother would have flown here ahead of all others.

"Here!" Faramir came around the shoulder of rock at a run and skidded to a halt, panting, his eyes over-bright and wild. "I saw Borlas! Saw him with my own eyes… Ah! Gods!" This last was wrenched out of him, as he threw himself heavily to his knees beside his brother and reached out an unsteady hand to touch his face. "'Tis true. Boromir… Boromir, my brother…"

Aragorn said naught to disturb him, watching in silence as Faramir gathered his brother's insensible body in his arms and crushed it to him, speaking his name over and over again, as if he could conjure up the man he remembered with this single word. When he saw Faramir's bowed shoulders begin to shake, he left off chafing Boromir's foot for a moment to say, gravely, "He lives, but I know not how or for how long he will endure this cold. We must get him back to camp and warm him, before I can treat his wounds."

"I can feel him breathing," Faramir gasped, his voice thick with tears. "When I hold him tightly enough, I can feel it, and I almost believe…"

"Help me, Faramir. Rub his hands and arms to warm his blood. You need not let him go, only do what you can to warm him."

Faramir shuddered at his words, his back still turned to Aragorn as he struggled to master himself. Finally, he settled onto the ground and shifted his hold on Boromir, so that his brother's torso lay across his lap. Aragorn could now see his face and the bright streaks of tears on his cheeks. Pulling aside one fold of the cloak, he bared Boromir's hands but abruptly halted his move to touch them, recoiling at the sight of the manacles he wore.

"What is this iron at his wrists? And about his throat?"

"The chains of his captors."

The younger man's face twisted in a grimace of pain. "I have lain awake, night after night, sick with fear at the thought of what he might be suffering. I have sworn a thousand times to find him and avenge every moment of his torment. But I could never have dreamed it thus."

He clasped Boromir's hand where it lay upturned upon his lap, the fingers curled inward, and his touch was infinitely gentle. Clenching his eyes shut against a fresh onslaught of tears, he bent his head to hide his face in Boromir's hair. Aragorn heard him murmur his brother's name again, his voice full of agony and pleading, and out of courtesy, dropped his gaze. His eyes fell on the brothers' hands, still clasped upon Boromir's lap, and he abruptly rocked forward onto his knees.

"Faramir." The sharpness of his call brought Faramir's head up with a start. "What is that in his hand?"

Faramir curled his fingers about Boromir's and straightened them, opening his hand to expose the small, white gem that lay gleaming against his scarred and filthy palm. Both Aragorn and Faramir stared at it in disbelief, and Faramir muttered, "It cannot be."

"He has it still." Aragorn moved as in a daze, crawling up to kneel at Boromir's side, opposite Faramir, and bending low over the jewel in his hand. "Sweet Valar, he has it still!"

From this close, he could see the slender chain wrapped twice about the manacle on Boromir's wrist and threaded through the gem's mounting. The chain was broken, yet Boromir had found a way to carry it and had brought it with him from the very bowels of the earth. The Star of the Dúnedain. Aragorn touched it reverently, marveling at its enduring beauty, as yet unmarked by the horrors that had nearly destroyed the man who bore it.

Then he gently closed Boromir's hand about the stone again. "Keep it yet awhile, Boromir of Gondor, as a symbol of your king's love. Soon you will not need such tokens, for you will wake to hear him speak it from his own lips." He bent to plant a kiss on his steward's cold brow, and as he straightened, tears began to slip from between his lashes to paint his face as brightly as if they, too, were jewels.

**_To be continued…_**


	11. Awakening

**Author's Note:** (Chevy sticks her head around the door and waves sheepishly) Hello! I hope there are still a few of you patient enough to wait for this chapter. I apologize for taking so long. I can only blame Real Life and the many distractions it brings, and say that I am sorry!

My thanks to all of you who wrote to nag me about the chapter. And my deepest thanks to Katrin for her invaluable help with the medical details.

I hope you enjoy the chapter! -- Chevy

**Chapter 11: _Awakening_**

"Nay… My lord! My lord Steward!" The lump of fur and wool lying on the camp bed twitched, as Borlas struggled to free his hands from the confining blankets. "Help me, my lord! Do not leave me!"

The cry, muffled as it was by the strange leather contraption covering Borlas' head and shoulders, brought Bergil to his side in an instant. "Peace, Borlas. All is well."

Bergil reached to pull aside the leather but hesitated, casting a questioning glance at the lady Arwen. She nodded once, and Bergil flipped open the makeshift tent. A gush of steam roiled out of it, rising from the pot of boiling water suspended over the brazier that stood at the head of the cot. Borlas' pale face turned toward the light, hollow eyes rolling wildly, and he either did not see or did not recognize his brother bending over him.

"My lord!" he whimpered, eyes sliding past Bergil's face.

"Hush, Brother. Do not be afraid." Shooting a glance at the Queen and gesturing to the steam tent, he asked, "Does he need this still, Lady?"

Arwen slid a hand inside the many layers of blankets and rested it on Borlas' naked chest. After a moment, she shook her head and murmured, "His body warms."

With a soft cry of relief, Bergil knocked away the obscuring leather so he could see his brother clearly at last. The boy looked more dead than alive to Bergil's frightened eyes. His cheeks were sunken and ghastly pale, the skin now clammy from the steam he had been breathing all these hours in a bid to warm him from the inside. As Bergil carefully blotted the moisture from Borlas' face, he thought that his skin seemed unbearably fragile, as if a single careless swipe with the cloth might tear it like old parchment.

Bergil could see no more than his face, swaddled as he was in fur and blankets, even his head, throat and shoulders covered, but the face was enough to tell his anxious brother just how ill he was and how close to death he had come. Bloodless, painfully dry lips moved as Borlas mumbled another plea, and sooty lashes fell to lie against the purpled skin beneath his eyes.

"Do not sleep, Brother," Bergil urged. "You must stay awake."

Arwen lifted the boy's head very slightly and tilted a cup to his lips. Steam curled gently from the liquid inside it, dewing Borlas' face again. "Drink, child."

Borlas shuddered at the touch of metal against his lips and tried to twist away. "Nay! 'Tis foul! I will not!"

"'Tis the King's medicine, brewed by his own hand for you," Arwen murmured soothingly. "'Twill ease the pain. Drink, child, and rest."

"My lord!" Borlas wailed, his head straining back with the force of his cry, and hot tears trailing down his cheeks.

"Lord Boromir is here. All is well, Borlas, and you are safe. I beg you, Brother, do as Lady Arwen asks and drink."

Between the two of them, Arwen and Bergil overmastered Borlas' strength and forced the draught down his throat. He gagged and choked, struggling not to swallow, but his body would not allow him to drown, whatever his addled mind might command, and he drank the medicine. When the cup was empty, Bergil settled him back on his bed and pulled the furs up around his head and throat again.

Borlas lay still with his eyes closed, weeping quietly, the sobs shaking his thin frame in a way that shadowed Arwen's face with concern.

"He does not breathe well," she murmured.

Bergil looked at her in alarm, one hand resting protectively on Borlas' head. "What is wrong with him?"

"Naught that we can help, at present."

"But, Lady…"

"Hush, Bergil. Look to your brother."

Bergil glanced down to find Borlas' eyes open again, fixed on his face. This time, it seemed that Borlas recognized him.

"Bergil?"

"Aye." He slid his hand beneath the furs to stroke the damp, filthy hair back from Borlas' brow. "Rest easy, now."

"Why are you crying?"

"I am not." Bergil swiped hastily at his cheeks with his sleeve and favored his brother with a watery grin. "Soldiers do not cry, only scrubby little boys."

Borlas frowned up at him in reproach. "I am not a scrubby boy. I am… the Steward's own page."

"So you are," his brother agreed with a fond smile.

"Grave… a grave responsibility… Father said." The glazed, clouded gaze wandered away from Bergil's face as if searching for something, and the boy's frown deepened. "Where is my lord? Where…? I m-must find Prince Boromir."

"Nay, Borlas, be still."

"I must!" He began to struggle against the weight of his blankets again, while the note of hysteria crept back into his voice. "I cannot neglect my duties… I c-cannot! Father will be so angry. Father…"

"Hush."

"Fly, Bergil." Borlas looked straight up into his face, eyes blank with panic, voice scaling up to a higher, more desperate pitch with every word he spoke. "You must not be here! They will find you… kill you… put you in their great pot and… Ah! Bergil! I cannot bear it!"

Sobs wracked Borlas' thin body once again, and he twisted his head away, clenching his eyes shut to avoid the sight of his brother's tormented face. "'Tis foul!" he gasped. "'Tis Éofal's flesh! I will not eat of it… I will not…"

"Peace," Bergil murmured, leaning down to bring his voice close to the suffering child, "all will be well. Only rest, and do not be afraid."

"I will starve with my lord. I will be strong… like the Steward of Gondor. I will serve him to the end… die with him in the black pits…"

With a strangled cry, Bergil scooped his brother up in his arms and clutched him tightly to his breast, muffling his broken words in his own tunic. Arwen uttered a soft protest, but the young soldier ignored her. His arms trembled as he held his brother's body close, and his voice broke with the effort of holding in his pain.

"You are safe now, my brother. You and your lord both. You are free of the pits and the blackness, safe in the King's care." Borlas whimpered, and Bergil lifted a hand to cradle his head. "Do not be afraid. I will let no Orc touch you."

"He must lie flat," Arwen murmured in Bergil's ear. "The cold may have weakened his heart, and he must remain still, undisturbed."

"In a moment."

"You imperil him."

"Where is my lord?" Borlas whispered plaintively.

"Prince Boromir is with the King," Bergil assured him softly. Then to the Queen, he said, "He is quieter when I hold him."

"Aye." She looked at the boy's rumpled head resting against his brother's shoulder, and her eyes darkened with concern.

"His heart beats strongly; I can feel it in my own breast."

Arwen merely nodded, her gaze never leaving Borlas. Soldier and Queen knelt together at the side of the camp bed, neither moving nor speaking, until the bundle of bones and skin in Bergil's arms dropped at last into a deep slumber. Then Bergil laid his brother back upon his bed and tucked the blankets firmly about him to shield him from even the slightest draught.

Arwen's voice, melodious as it was, struck Bergil's ears harshly after the long silence. "His wits wander. 'Tis common, when the body has grown so cold, for the mind falter with it. He will be more himself when he wakes again."

"Did you hear what he said, my lady, about the great pot and the food offered him?"

"I heard."

"Can it be true?"

The Queen's beautiful, serene face tightened with disgust, and a hard light showed in her eyes. "_Yrch!_" It seemed for a moment as though she might spit to clean the taste of that word from her mouth. "What beastliness would their kind not practice, to the torment of Men? Aye, Bergil, it can be true and likely is."

The young man's shoulders bowed, and his head drooped between them, hiding his face from her gaze. A tremor passed through him, as he fought against the horror that rose to engulf him. Arwen rested a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Weep, if it will give you ease," she murmured.

He drew in a ragged breath and whispered, harshly, "I am a soldier of Gondor, a man and not a child."

Her fingers tightened their clasp for a moment, and her voice softened. "Even the bravest soldier may weep to see a brother suffer."

* * *

Faramir sat in the warm darkness of the King's tent, cross-legged upon the floor, his elbows resting on his knees and his chin in his hands, his eyes lingering on the face of the man beside him. He could see little by the dull, orange light of the braziers, but there was little enough to see. Boromir slept, unmoving, unknowing, barely seeming to breathe much of the time, while his brother waited and watched in an agony of spirit such as he had never known before.

That he was overjoyed to have his brother with him again Faramir knew in his mind, but the truth of Boromir's return had not yet penetrated from his head to his heart. He had not yet begun to feel it and he doubted, even as he gazed into his brother's face, that this apparition would somehow vanish, leaving him bereft. To lose Boromir again would destroy him. And yet, to have him in this manner was not to have him at all, or so the demon of doubt whispered in Faramir's mind, tormenting him.

Should he weep with joy, Faramir wondered, or with pain? Had he found Boromir upon the stream's bank only to walk the Silent Street beside his bier? And if Boromir lived, what then?

Rising to his knees, Faramir bent over the still form of his brother. Boromir breathed steadily now, and his lips had regained something of their natural color. His face was terribly pale, sunken between the sharp curves of cheekbone and jaw, gashed with fresh wounds and blackened with blood and filth, and yet still so familiar to Faramir that the sight of thickened his throat with pain. He lifted a hand to rest on Boromir's brow, just above the edge of the cloth that bound his eyes, and bent close to murmur,

"Ah, Boromir, my brother. You are cold yet, and so very far from me." Tears stung Faramir's eyes, but he blinked them ruthlessly away. "Can you not hasten back? Can you not speak a word – just one word – to the brother who has waited so long to hear your voice again? I need but a word, Boromir, to tell me that it is you."

The tears slipped treacherously from between his lashes and painted glowing orange streaks down his face. "Do not leave me now, I beg you. I fear our father's fate is upon me, and I will run mad with grief. Speak a word for me. Call me Brother."

Boromir stirred slightly, his head turning beneath Faramir's hand and his breast rising in a deeper breath. Faramir heard the grating of metal as Boromir moved his manacled hands beneath the blankets.

"'Tis I! 'Tis Faramir!" he cried softly, eagerly, but in the next breath, Boromir fell still without giving any sign of having heard.

Faramir bowed his head, struggling to master himself, but the roughness of his voice betrayed his anguish. "I know well whose voice you will heed, whose call you will answer. He who has ever kept faith with you when all the world else doubted, and I, your own brother, wavered. Would that he were here, not I, so that he might call you back from the darkness in which you wander. I am sorry, Boromir! Sorry that I lingered in the empty lands, dreaming of Elves, while you fought to keep Gondor's borders whole and suffered in the Orcs' den. Sorry that my every choice leads you into greater danger and more terrible loss. Sorry that it is not my voice for which you listen, now."

"My prince?"

Faramir leapt as if stung, and turned to see a familiar head poking through the flap of the tent. "Legolas!"

"I beg your pardon for intruding," the Elf stepped inside and straightened, showing Faramir the shield he held, like a great curved tray, by its padded grips, "but Aragorn sent me to change the warming stones. How fares Boromir?"

"He sleeps." Faramir got to his feet and crossed the tent to take the shield from Legolas' hands. It held several large stones, and from the warmth that beat up against his face, Faramir gathered that they had only just been taken from the fire. "You do not intrude, my friend. I need the company."

Legolas eyed him narrowly for a moment, bringing a wry smile to Faramir's face.

"As you see, I am indulging in regrets."

"Do not," Legolas urged, gently. He crossed to the bed at Faramir's side, then knelt swiftly to peer at Boromir. "He rests in comfort and shows none of the danger signs of which Aragorn warned us. I just left the page, Borlas. He is in worse case, by far."

"But he lives?"

"Aye. Arwen holds out hope that he will recover, but his smaller body was chilled far more deeply than Boromir's, bringing him that much closer to death. He is in great pain, his mind wanders, and he shows signs already of lung sickness."

As he spoke, Legolas deftly pulled a number of objects wrapped in heavy cloth from the blankets that shrouded Boromir's shoulders and head. Faramir took similar bundles from against his ribs. They opened the wrappings and dumped a number of large stones onto the tent floor, then they used the cloth to protect their hands as they lifted the heated stones from the shield.

"While Boromir lies as one dead," Faramir said, wrapping a stone securely in thick layers of cloth. "And we must ride with the dawn or prepare to do battle with all the Orcs of the Misty Mountains."

At his words, Boromir stirred again, his head turning and his lips moving soundlessly. Faramir dropped the warming stone he held and bent eagerly over his brother, calling, "Boromir! Do you hear me? Speak, Brother, I pray you!"

Man and Elf waited in anxious silence for some response, but Boromir sank once more into his death-like stupor, only the whisper of breath from between his lips betraying that he lived. After a long, quiet moment, Legolas sighed and resumed his work.

"He breathes more quickly than before," Faramir whispered. "Mayhap he is awake, but too weak to answer us?"

The Elf merely shook his head and motioned for Faramir to place the warming stones quickly. They finished their task in silence, tucking the hot stones beneath the blankets and settling them against the injured man's ribs and shoulders. Then they collected the cooled stones in the shield and drew away from the cot where Boromir slept. Halting at the tent opening, Legolas turned eyes dark with pain on his sleeping friend.

"I know not if he can hear us, but I would not trouble him with more talk of Orcs."

"Aye." Faramir, too, gazed at his brother in anxious concern, then turned to Legolas and asked, "Where is the King? Will he not come himself?"

"He will, when the camp is secure and the company ready to ride with the dawn."

"Can he not leave those duties in another's hands? Can he not be a friend and a healer first, for this one night?"

"He is trying his hardest to be a friend tonight, though it tears his heart to do it." At Faramir's questioning look, the Elf gave him a melancholy smile and said, "Yours are the only hands he would trust with such duties, my Prince, but he will not call you away from your brother's side to spare himself labor."

Faramir stared at him, appalled, for a moment, then reached for the shield Legolas held. "I am thrice a fool, Master Elf! Give me your burden, and I will set the stones to heating again. Then I will walk the camp's defenses, speak to the sentries, order up the watch change…"

"Nay, Faramir!" Legolas protested, moving the shield beyond his reach. "Your place is here. Aragorn and his lieutenants have our defenses well in hand."

"The King should be free to care for his patients, when he has an able second to command his troops. I am worse than useless here. I know naught of healing, but I know as much as ever my brother did of how to make war on Orcs!"

"Dead…"

The rasping whisper brought utter silence in its wake, as Man and Elf turned to stare at the heap of furs and blankets on the cot. For a breathless moment, they were too stunned to move or to believe the evidence of their ears, but then they both saw Boromir turn his head, as if searching for them in the darkness, and heard him mutter, "All dead."

"Aiiee! Boromir!" Legolas dropped the shield and its load of stones with a crash and crossed to the camp bed in two swift strides. Faramir, who did not have an Elf's reflexes, was a step behind him.

"Boromir?" Legolas cried, as he dropped to one knee beside the cot, "Boromir, my friend, do you hear? 'Tis Legolas, your very own Elvish nursemaid!"

The Steward drew in a slow, labored breath and whispered, thickly, "Legolas."

"Aye." Legolas uttered a burst of silvery laughter that sounded strange in that place of sickness and fear, but it seemed to drive the shadows into the farthest corners of the tent and lighten the very air. "And here is Faramir, as well."

"Faramir. I heard… your v…"

"Rest easy," Faramir murmured, as he slipped a hand beneath the blankets to clasp Boromir's arm. He felt his brother shove weakly against the confining layers of fur and fabric. "You are safe in the King's camp, under his care."

At that, Legolas bounded to his feet, crying, "Aragorn! I must tell him that Boromir is awake!"

"Orcs," Boromir muttered, once more attempting to throw off his heavy coverings. "Tell him… Orcs…"

"He knows of the threat from the Orcs, Boromir, do not fear. They will not take him unawares."

"Dead."

"What is dead?" Faramir asked.

"Orcs."

After another startled pause, Legolas laughed again, his voice ringing with delight and relief. "By the Valar, Boromir, I should have guessed it! You have slain the Orcs and left none for us!" He turned for the tent opening, adding half to himself, "And left none for poor Gimli, too, I'll wager. How angry he will be!"

"Legolas…" Boromir rasped, trying to speak strongly from a throat stripped raw by smoke and water.

"Peace, my friend. I go to fetch the King and tell him his battle is already won."

"Leg… Legolas…"

The leather flap fell closed behind Legolas, leaving the brothers alone in the warm, dark tent.

"He is gone, Brother."

"Faramir."

Boromir formed the name silently with cracked, bleeding lips, but Faramir heard his adored elder brother's voice, full of warmth and affection, speaking his name as it had countless times, and fresh tears spilled from his eyes. He tightened his clasp on Boromir's forearm, trying not to feel the bones so close beneath the skin or hear the grating of iron chains when Boromir moved to touch his hand.

"It is you, in truth," Faramir whispered. "I could not make myself believe it, until you awakened and knew me."

Boromir's fingers closed over Faramir's, and the younger man uttered a low, gasping sob. Bowing his head until his brow touched Boromir's shoulder, he let the tears come and the incredible, agonizing relief fill him. For some minutes, neither man spoke, and only the muffled sound of Faramir's weeping broke the silence.

Then Boromir stirred, bringing his brother's head up with a start, and asked, in his harsh, ragged whisper, "How did you find me?"

"'Tis a long tale, and one King Elessar or Legolas could better tell."

"Nay." He turned his head away, his throat working as he tried to clear the roughness from it. "Too far…"

Watching him, it occurred to Faramir that he must be terribly thirsty. Elessar had said something about urging him to drink, should he wake, and here Faramir had kept him talking without so much as offering a cup of water. He scrambled over to the nearest brazier and retrieved a silver goblet that stood beside it, drawing warmth from the glowing coals. Slipping one hand behind Boromir's head to lift it, he tilted the cup to his brother's lips with the other, urging,

"Drink, Boromir. It will quench your thirst and ease the pain in your throat."

"What is it?"

"Something of Elessar's making. It will warm you."

Boromir hesitated, his lips pressed firmly shut, while the cup steamed gently and a clean, crisp scent rose from it. At last, he relaxed and opened his mouth far enough that Faramir could pour the drink into it. He swallowed once, painfully, then again with more ease, and gradually he drained the cup.

"Where is Aragorn?" he asked, more strongly, as Faramir settled his head back against the furs.

"Legolas will bring him." Faramir smoothed the hair back from Boromir's brow, ignoring the filth stiffening the strands in the sheer pleasure of touching him again after deeming him lost for so long. "You asked me how we found you…"

"Mmh."

"It was Elessar. Aragorn," he amended. Faramir rarely used the King's more familiar name, having met him and come to know him by the formal, Elvish name of Elessar. But the name Aragorn, he knew, conjured up the image of a friend and brother in Boromir's mind. It was Aragorn who had suffered with Boromir in the dungeons of Isengard. It was Aragorn who had greeted him upon the Pelennor Fields, with the blood of Sauron's Orcs smoking upon his sword. It was Aragorn who had named him Steward and stood with him against friend and enemy alike when the nobility of Gondor thought to strip him of his title. And now, it was Aragorn he needed to find beside him, not Elessar.

"Aragorn knew you were in peril," Faramir continued, slipping his hand beneath the blankets to clasp Boromir's fingers once more. "He led us south from Rivendell taking the shortest road to Gondor and to you – or so he thought. Had Legolas not found us and told us of your capture, we would have ridden past you and left you to find your own way home."

"I thought… I would have to crawl all the way to Gondor," Boromir muttered.

A smile born as much of pain as of amusement twisted Faramir's face. "I believe you would have done it. I know not how, but you would have found your way to the very gates of Minas Tirith."

"Glad I did… did not have to."

Faramir opened his mouth to answer him, but the sound of voices and the crunch of booted feet just outside the tent silenced him. He turned just in time to see the tent flap fly open and a tall figure duck swiftly through it.

* * *

Aragorn snapped out orders to the young Ranger and his grey-clad dúnedan lieutenant as he walked along the foot of the eastern ridge, his eyes automatically scanning its top as he went. Even as he gave them detailed instructions for the breaking of camp and stowing of gear, he ran down the list of tasks that still needed doing in his mind. To his dismay, the list kept growing longer, while the hours of the night crept by and his own strength flagged, and still his patients waited for him.

He saw a shadow loom up against the night sky, and a voice called harshly, "Halt, in the King's name!"

"'Tis your King you are halting, Feneldil."

"The password, my lord?"

"Horn of Gondor."

The shadow saluted him and shouldered its lance, turning back to its place in a nest of boulders. Aragorn resumed his walk along the lower path, with the two men trailing him. He had not yet reached the next sentry post, when he heard a familiar voice hail him in a glad tone that halted him in his tracks.

"Aragorn! Aragorn!"

"Here!" he called, trying to hold down the tide of excitement that rose in him.

"You must come at once. Boromir is awake!" Legolas slid to a stop at his side and gripped his arm in powerful fingers. His eyes were so bright that they seemed to shine in the darkness, and his teeth flashed in a wide smile. "He is awake, Aragorn, and he brings strange tidings from beneath the mountains."

Aragorn turned at once to retrace his steps, his officers forgotten. "What tidings? Is he well? Does he seem himself? Did you speak to him, Legolas? Did he know you?" The questions tumbled ever more rapidly from his lips, until Legolas overrode him.

"He has all his wits about him, and if I understand him aright, he has been merrily slaughtering Orcs while we hunted through the wilderness to rescue him." The Elf laughed aloud, throwing back his fair head and turning his face up to the stars. "Boromir has come back to us, Aragorn, and I can almost forget his dreadful wounds or the long weeks of despair in the sheer gladness I feel at this moment!"

An incredulous smile spread over Aragorn's face, as he watched the Elf and allowed himself the first stirrings of hope. "How did he seem to you?"

"You will see for yourself, if you will but hurry a little," Legolas chided, pulling on Aragorn's arm. "And you need not bother about the Orcs, for Boromir tells us that they are dead."

"Dead?" Aragorn stopped in his tracks and turned to look at the two men hurrying along in his wake. "How, dead?"

"I did not stay to ask. Come, Aragorn!"

Aragorn hesitated for another moment, then waved the two men away. "Carry out my orders and continue preparations for the morrow. I will send word if there is a change in plan."

The Ranger and the dúnadan bowed and disappeared into the trees, leaving Aragorn alone with the Elf. He shot Legolas a swift look from the corners of his eyes, then he bounded forward in a great leap, running for the tent where Boromir awaited him. Legolas caught him up in two strides and paced at his side, still smiling, his eyes turned ever upward toward the stars that peeked through the overhanging branches of the trees.

"Faramir is with him?" Aragorn demanded.

"Aye. I thought it best to fetch you with all speed and leave Faramir some time alone with his brother. He suffers, Aragorn."

"I know it, and not from this mischance alone. The last few years have left deep wounds in Faramir that I do not know how to heal."

"Mayhap because you are not the one to heal them."

Aragorn nodded understanding but mentally brushed away his concern for the young prince. All his thoughts, all his energies were fixed on one man. A great ache of longing filled him, and he flung himself toward the small tent in undignified, unkingly haste.

"Fetch me the broth Éowyn is tending," he called over his shoulder to Legolas. Then he whipped aside the flap and ducked into the tent.

Faramir was crouched at Boromir's side, but he turned at the sound of Aragorn's coming and half rose to his feet. "My lord."

"Stay, Faramir. Is he yet awake?"

"Aye."

That word carried Aragorn across the floor in a rush. Faramir sidled out of his way, as he dropped to his knees beside the camp bed and bent over the man lying on it. "Boromir," he said, his voice soft but laden with feeling. "Boromir."

The other man turned his head, and Aragorn fancied that a pair of piercing green eyes were gazing up at him through the black cloth that shrouded them. "Aragorn."

"Boromir," he said, once again, his voice breaking before he could get the name fully out. Then he lifted a hand to rest on Boromir's head and he bowed to plant a kiss on his brow.

The Steward uttered a soundless murmur of relief at Aragorn's touch and whispered, roughly, "It is true, then. You found me."

"Did you doubt me?" Aragorn asked, torn between tears and laughter.

"I can no longer tell dream from waking, so long has the nightmare lasted."

"Ah, Boromir," Aragorn breathed. Peeling back the heavy blankets that wrapped Boromir close, he freed the other man's arms and lifted his left hand from where it lay on his midriff. The chains at his wrists clanked harshly, and Boromir's face tightened at the sound.

"I am sorry that you wear your chains still," Aragorn murmured, as he turned Boromir's hand to lie palm up in his own, "but I have not the tools to strike them off without injuring you. I will free you as swiftly as I may. Do not doubt it."

"I do not."

"And do not doubt that the nightmare is past," he added softly, "that I am as solid, as real as this gem you wear."

As he spoke, he carefully disentangled the chain from Boromir's manacle, loosening it so that the white stone hanging from it swung free. Then he lowered the gem to rest in Boromir's scarred palm. At its cold touch on his skin, Boromir closed his fist about it, holding it as tightly as his weakened fingers could manage. Aragorn closed his own hand over Boromir's, adding his strength to that of his steward, and bent to drop another kiss upon Boromir's brow.

"You carried my love with you into the very bowels of the earth and out again, my brother. I know not what comfort it could give you in such a place, but I pray it was enough."

"Uglúk feared it," Boromir said in a voiceless whisper. "He said he did not fear you, that he would slay you and put your head upon a spear for crows to peck at, yet he dared not take your gift from me."

"Then never was a truer gift given nor a star's light better bestowed."

"Aragorn." Boromir drew in a labored, ragged breath and let it out slowly, visibly struggling to master himself. "Aragorn," he repeated, testing the feel of that name on his lips, then went on in his rasping whisper, "I have run mad, I think. I hear your voice, and Faramir's, and Legolas' – all those I most longed to hear again – and yet it cannot be. I am sinking into my last sleep in the darkness beneath the mountains, while my mind wanders in new and more hopeless dreams. I am an Orc's supper."

"Nay. You are Boromir of Gondor, my most trusted Steward and my dearest friend. You are no creature's supper."

Boromir did not answer him. From the grim lines of his face, Aragorn guessed that he had sunk into some black reverie or grief.

A stirring at the tent's opening drew Aragorn's attention, and he turned to see Legolas and Éowyn step through it. The White Lady held a cup in her hands, but when her keen gaze had taken in the scene before her, she handed the cup to Legolas and drew back, leaving the Elf to approach the bed alone. Boromir either did not hear Legolas' light step, or he was too deeply mired in his own thoughts to take notice of it. He gave no sign of awareness, until Aragorn spoke to him in a low, persuasive tone.

"You must eat now, Boromir, and regain your strength."

"Borlas." Boromir stirred, plucked fretfully at his blankets and looked about him with his bandaged gaze, as if hoping to find his page lurking in a dark corner of the tent. "Borlas… the boy. Did you find him?"

"Aye, he is safe in my care. Do not trouble yourself about him now."

"I gave him my word… I would not let him die in the Orc den. I promised to bring him home."

"You have done so. He will enter the gates of Minas Tirith as he left them, at his lord's side. You have _my_ word on that."

"Thank you, Aragorn."

The King smiled. "'Tis you who deserve my thanks, Steward of Gondor, for Legolas tells me that you slew the Orcs single-handed, and spared us a desperate and bloody battle."

"Borlas helped. And the Wizard."

Aragorn's brows rose. "What wizard?"

"Saruman. Uglúk plundered his caves… hoarded the weapons he found. Barrels of black powder."

"Ah!" Legolas cried, softly. "Saruman's fire!"

"It needed only a touch of flame," Boromir rasped, "to finish them all. Burn them as they slept."

"Is this the same exploding fire that breached the walls at Helm's Deep?" Faramir asked.

Boromir gave a grunt of assent.

"Then the earth tremor we felt was your black powder!"

"Uglúk bragged that he had enough to blow the top off of Redhorn. Or bring down the walls of Minas Tirith."

Aragorn grinned at Legolas, then clasped Boromir's shoulder in warm approval. "That was well done, Boromir. Well done, indeed. Now we are rid of both the Uruk-hai and the threat of Saruman's evil weapons."

"I could not let him… march upon the White City… put your head on a spear and bring down Gimli's fine new gates in ruin."

"What of the others?" Éowyn asked, her voice harsh and cold with strain. At Aragorn's glance, she took a step forward and demanded, "What of the Riders who were taken with you, my lord Steward? What has befallen them?"

"We must know, Boromir," Aragorn urged more gently. "If any of your company yet live, we must find and free them."

Boromir pondered this for a long moment, while dread thickened in the close air of the tent. At last he spoke, with a visible effort, as if struggling to drag a lighter memory up from the depths of his despair and pain. "Éothain and another were not in the cavern. They might have escaped the fire, but I know not what the Uruks may have done to them, before…"

"Still, there is a chance they are alive?"

"Aye." Boromir's face darkened with fresh pain. "But I know not where to look for them. Somewhere to the south. Near to Isengard."

Aragorn looked exultantly to Faramir, and then to Éowyn, reading the taut eagerness in them both. "Gimli rides to Isengard!"

"Aye," Faramir murmured, "but he cannot search all the tunnels of the Misty Mountains in time, even without Orcs to hamper him."

"The Wizard's caves," Boromir whispered. "They found… wine. Set the Riders to moving it." After a moment's thought, he added, more quietly still, his voice fading and roughening with weariness, "Borlas has seen the caves. Ask him."

Legolas leaned forward and pitched his voice for Aragorn's ears, not wanting to distress the injured man lying between them. "The child's wits wander. He is in no fit state for questions."

Aragorn nodded his understanding. "I will see to him shortly. Mayhap I can bring him back to himself." He reached to take the silver cup from Legolas' hand and, with infinite care, slipped his own free hand beneath Boromir's head to lift it. "First I must tend to my steward's needs. 'Tis time you rested, Boromir. Drink. Then you can sleep until morning."

As he spoke, Aragorn tilted the cup to Boromir's lips. At the touch of the warm metal, Boromir obediently opened his mouth, but even as he prepared to swallow what Aragorn offered him, the smell rising from the cup struck him, and he recoiled with a choked cry of disgust. Broth slopped from the cup, spilling down his chin, and he wrenched his head from Aragorn's clasp with another cry.

"Nay! I will not!"

"Peace, Boromir!" Aragorn righted the cup before all the broth spilled, but before he could offer it again, the other man twisted sharply away, turning onto his side and burying his face in the blankets. As Aragorn watched, a shudder wracked his thin frame, and he began to retch.

Legolas, who now crouched closest to his huddled form, placed a calming hand on Boromir's head and bent to murmur in his ear. "'Tis naught but clear broth. It will settle your stomach and give you strength."

"I cannot!" Boromir gasped, another wave of sickness making him choke and gag. "'Tis foul…"

"Nay, my friend. Will you not trust to Aragorn's healing and do as he bids?"

It took Boromir some moments to muster an answer. He lay with his face still hidden and his shoulders hunched as if anticipating a blow. Every breath wracked him, and every swallow was a choke of pain. Legolas kept one hand on his head and with the other clasped his shoulder to steady him, while Aragorn rose from his place on the floor to sit upon the camp bed at Boromir's back. Faramir went to where Éowyn stood like a pale, haunted statue, and drew her into his arms.

Into the waiting silence, Boromir spoke, his voice no more than a ragged whisper, edged with horror. "He slaughtered them, Aragorn."

The King leaned closer to catch his words, his arms now supporting Boromir, as the injured man tried to turn onto his back again and found that he had not the strength to move.

"He worked them as slaves until they dropped, then he… butchered them and threw them in his great stewpot. Four men. Four swift sons of Éorl. Slain to fill the bellies of Orcs."

Éowyn turned abruptly to press her face into Faramir's shoulder, but the others remained frozen by Boromir's terrible words.

"Éofal was the last. His death is on my hands."

"Nay, Boromir," Aragorn murmured.

"I thought to teach an Orc mercy." Something dreadfully like a laugh tore at his throat, and his entire body shook with the force of it. "But 'twas I who learned from him… Wily old Uglúk. A soldier. A general. A medic." Boromir drew in a ragged breath, and hissed, "A butcher and a beast! So I butchered him, in the end. Split his skull open with a lance. Lay in his blood and listened to him die. Then I cooked the rest in their beds… But what creature will eat of their flesh? Mayhap a wandering mountain Orc will stumble upon the feast…"

"Hush, Boromir. Enough."

"I killed him. Éofal. Uglúk had him slain as punishment…"

"Enough."

Aragorn lifted his wasted body with ease and laid him upon his back, settling his head gently onto a thick pad of furs. Then he pulled the blankets up around his chin, hiding the iron collar that still circled his throat. Boromir submitted to his ministrations in silence, his chest laboring as if he were weeping, though no tears wet his cheeks.

"I will find some food that you can stomach," Aragorn went on, while he fussed about, making certain that Boromir was as comfortable as his many injuries would allow, "and I will prepare poultices for your wounds. In the meantime, I command you to rest. You will need all your strength, come tomorrow."

With the harsh grating of iron chains, Boromir reached to catch his hand, halting his movements. "Find them, Aragorn. Do not let them perish like the others."

"I will."

"And look to Borlas. I gave him my word…"

"Be easy. Leave everything to me." Breaking Boromir's grip on him, Aragorn tucked his arms beneath the blankets and chided, "Sleep, and do not worry."

With a twitch of his head, Aragorn signaled the others to draw away from the bed with him. He retrieved the cup from where he had left it on the floor and crossed swiftly to the tent opening. There, he thrust it into Éowyn's hands and murmured, too low for Boromir to hear, "Take that away, and do not offer it to the boy. We do not want to frighten him further."

"If Boromir will not eat meat…" Faramir began, but Aragorn cut him off with a gesture.

"'Tis too soon to know what he will or will not eat. But for the present, I do not want to press him. I will find something to sustain them both, until their wounds begin to heal and their minds to grasp that they are truly safe. Then we shall see."

"What did you mean about Boromir needing all his strength tomorrow?" Faramir asked. "Do we still ride at sunup?"

"Nay, we will stay here for another day or two, as there are no Orcs to drive us out."

"Then he can rest," Faramir breathed, relief plain in his voice.

"He can rest, once I have finished with that wound in his leg."

Glancing back toward the man lying so still beneath the blankets, Aragorn waved them all out of the tent, where their talk of wounds and Orcs would not disturb Boromir's sleep. They gathered close about him in the chill night, listening intently.

"The wound is black and rotten. It must be thoroughly cleaned, and quickly, if I am to save his leg."

Legolas looked more grim than was his wont, when he asked, "Can Boromir endure such a trial?"

"Not in his present weakened state, but I dare not delay longer than tomorrow – midday at the latest."

"Is there aught that we can do to aid you? Or my brother?" Faramir asked.

Aragorn nodded. "Find my lieutenants and tell them that my order to break camp is reversed. See to the watch change. Warn the men that we must keep the camp secure, perhaps for a number of days, and organize a forage party for the morning. Then collect what foodstuffs we have that contain no meat. There is little enough, I fear, but mayhap our foragers can bring us some late vegetables or grains. And Éowyn, if you would care to send word to your brother by my messenger, make haste to prepare it. He will ride within the hour."

"Aye, my lord."

"Now, I must see to Borlas and glean what information I can from him."

Faramir and Éowyn nodded their understanding and disappeared into the night to do the King's bidding. Aragorn ducked back into the tent and crossed to Boromir's pallet, crouching beside him to gaze intently at his face.

To a stranger's eyes, Boromir's gaunt, ravaged features might have seemed dreadful – a mask of suffering and death. But to Aragorn, they were so familiar and so welcome a sight that he found himself weeping, quietly, with gladness as he looked upon them.

"The nightmare is ended, my friend. Sleep without fear, and dream only of the stars and their music."

Rising to his feet, he stooped to rest his fingertips lightly against Boromir's cheek, then he turned and strode from the tent.

Legolas was waiting for him as he stepped outside.

"All is well with Boromir?"

"As well as it can be," Aragorn agreed.

"Have you an errand for me, my king? Or may I undertake one of my own choosing?" He gestured toward the tent and man sleeping within.

Aragorn smiled and brushed open the flap. "'Tis the very task I had set aside for you. Send for me if Boromir should wake."

With a nod and a swift, bright smile, the Elf disappeared into the tent. Aragorn turned his steps toward Borlas and Arwen, secure in the knowledge that Boromir had his Elvish nursemaid beside him.

* * *

Pippin groaned and pulled his blanket up about his ears. A bird, perched somewhere high up in the tree above him, was scolding furiously, filling the sweet morning air with its racket and dragging a poor, tired, bedraggled hobbit from his well-earned rest.

"Go away, you wretched creature!" he cried, when a fresh outbreak of squawks and shrieks forced him to admit that he would get no more sleep under this tree. Shoving back the blanket, he sat up and fumbled for a rock on the ground beside him. "Leave us in peace, why don't you?"

Cocking back his hand, he let fly with the stone and heard it smack into a branch overhead. The bird, startled by the noise, gave an outraged cry, hopped to another branch, and resumed its scolding.

"Bother." Pippin yawned hugely and scratched his head, looking about him hopefully. "I say, Merry. Where's breakfast?"

Merry did not answer, and Pippin felt a twinge of worry at his silence. Merry never slept past sunrise and always awakened Pippin with his first meal in one hand and the ponies' reins in the other, urging him to make haste. But this morning, there was no fire stoked and crackling, no food cooking, no ponies nudging at him with their velvet noses. There was only the little hollow, with its carpet of dried leaves and moss, the tree, the bird, and the touch of mellow autumn sunlight on his face.

Pippin scrambled from his bed and over to the edge of the hollow. Peering down the slope toward the road, he saw the two ponies still tied where they had left them the night before, munching happily on the leaves of a nearby bush. Merry had not left, then. Or not taken his mount, if he had.

"There you are, Pip."

Pippin spun around so fast that he almost tripped over his own cloak and saw Merry leaping nimbly down the hillside above the hollow, his arms full of dried sticks and branches. It may have been some trick of the dappled light, but Pippin could have sworn that he was smiling.

"I thought you were going to sleep the whole morning away!"

Pulling his mouth closed with a snap, Pippin retorted, "And I thought you had been snatched by bandits or eaten by trolls, when you did not kick and curse me out of my bedroll at first light. What have you been up to?"

"Just gathering firewood."

"But Merry, it is mid-morning already."

"Long past breakfast time. Help me with this fire, won't you, while I slice up the last of our sausages?" Merry handed Pippin the load of firewood and moved off to rummage through his pack without a backward glance. "I don't suppose there is any place to find good sausages in this country. We must wait 'til we reach Edoras, or Isengard at the very least."

A bit awkwardly, with his eyes still glued to Merry's back, Pippin set about stoking up the fire. He singed his fingers twice but barely noticed, so befuddled was he by the change in his traveling companion. Gone were the sunken eyes and haunted look. Gone were the terse manner, the flashes of unaccustomed temper and the restless, almost desperate straining to hurry, hurry, hurry. The Merry before him now reminded him poignantly of the dear cousin he had known and loved all his life. Pippin had nearly given up hope of seeing him again on this bitter journey.

"What's happened to you, Merry?" Pippin asked suddenly. "You changed in the night."

Merry looked up at him in surprise, his knife poised above a fat sausage, his head cocked to one side as he considered his answer. "I think, perhaps, I slept without dreaming." Then he smiled, and while his deep weariness still showed in the circles beneath his eyes and the new lines in his face, his eyes sparkled with some of their old humor. "The only thing I know for certain is that I'm ravenously hungry! So hurry up with that fire."

They ate at their leisure, each of them wiping his plate clean with a hunk of bread left over from their last night under an inn roof. They had only ale and water to drink, but ale suited such a breakfast, and they sat long over their cups. Merry even brought out his pipe and offered Pip a bit of Longbottom Leaf to fill his own, sitting beside his younger cousin in companionable silence, while they blew smoke rings at the noisy bird and privately savored the taste of home upon their tongues.

As they tied the last bundle onto a pony's back and prepared to depart, Merry turned his oddly tired, yet twinkling gaze on Pippin and said, "The mountains look closer than before. We cannot be more than a day's ride from the Fords of Isen."

Pippin groaned and heaved himself into the saddle. "You have said that every day for a fortnight past."

"And will doubtless say it again tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that. One day, you will see that I am right."

Pippin laughed and clapped his heels to the pony's sides, sending him trotting into the middle of the road. "Come then! Let us make haste to the Fords of Isen and Edoras! And to some nice, fat, sausages!"

"And to Gondor," Merry added, quietly, as he urged his mount forward and fell into step at Pippin's side.

Together, the two hobbits clattered along the road toward the soaring peaks of the mountains and the silver mist that cloaked the Gap of Rohan. And for the first time in many weeks, Pippin smiled as he rode.

* * *

"Make way! Make way in the King's name!"

The cry came from the back of the column. Horses sidled and danced, as their rider's hauled on the reins to draw them to one side or the other. A bay horse galloped through their ranks, sides heaving, lips flecked with foam, a man in the green and white livery of Ithilien clinging to his back. Riders stared in wonder and growing excitement, recognizing one of Prince Faramir's Rangers and a member of the King's company in this harried messenger.

As the Ranger drew near to the head of the column, the two riders in the van halted and turned to watch him approach. They were an oddly matched pair – a Man both tall and fair, with a white crest upon his helm and silver mail glinting beneath his green cloak, and a Dwarf clad in the thick leathers and chain mail favored by his people, with a heavy axe at his belt. The sight of a Dwarf sitting astride a horse of Rohan might have given any man pause, but this messenger knew well the abilities of this particular Dwarf. And his close friendship with King, Prince and Steward.

"Master Gimli!" the Ranger cried, as he dragged back on his horse's reins and fairly flung himself from the saddle. "I come with word from the King!"

Gimli glared down at the messenger from beneath his bristling, fearsome brows and demanded, "What's amiss? Speak, lad! What news from the King?"

A wide smile broke, like sunlight, across the young man's face. "The Steward is found! Prince Boromir and his page are with the King!"

"_Great Durin's Beard!_" Gimli roared, exultantly. Forgetting how precariously he was perched in his saddle, the Dwarf twisted round to grasp Elfhelm's arm and bellowed, "Do you hear, Elfhelm? Boromir is found!"

"I hear," Elfhelm said, grinning widely enough to split his face, "but I cannot credit it. A man, come alive from the Orc dens of the Misty Mountains? 'Tis beyond belief."

"I'd not believe it of any Man, save Boromir! But he should have been born a Dwarf, that one. As enduring as the mountains' roots, and more stubborn than a nest full of trolls."

Chuckling, he leaned out to slap Elfhelm on the shoulder. In the next instant, arms flailing and feet scrabbling for purchase in stirrups not made to hold Dwarfish feet, Gimli overbalanced and pitched headlong from the saddle.

He landed hard on his back, in a thicket of horse legs. The air flew out of his lungs, leaving him gasping and red in the face. Through watering eyes, he saw Elfhelm leap gracefully to the ground and bend over him, but when the Man offered him a hand up, he swatted it away.

With a wheeze and a grunt, Gimli pushed himself upright and drew in a deep breath. Then he let it out in a roar of laughter. "Do not stand their gaping, Master Horselord! Fetch us a wineskin, and we will drink the Steward's health! Ale would go down nicely just now, but I'll wager you have none handy."

"Nay, friend, I cannot offer you ale," Elfhelm answered gravely, his grey eyes alight with laughter.

"Then wine must serve. Ah! What a pity Legolas is not here to share it with us!" A sudden thought occurred to him, and he heaved himself abruptly to his feet, snatching at Elfhelm's arm when the Rider moved to do his bidding. "But stay. There is naught to be done in the Wizard's Vale. Naught keeping me from my friends. I will not tarry here, but ride for the King's camp at once. Then I may see for myself that Boromir is alive, and raise a cup in celebration with Legolas."

"Nay, Master Gimli!" the messenger interjected sharply. "'Tis the King's command that you ride for Isengard with all speed."

"Eh?" Gimli turned his ferocious scowl on the Ranger and took the sealed letter that the man held out to him. "To Isengard still?"

He broke the seal on the dispatch and spread it between his hands. As he read, his face darkened and his frown grew more pronounced, but there was a fierce marshal light in the eyes he lifted to Elfhelm's face.

"This is fit labor for Dwarves, indeed! Two men trapped in the warren of caves and passages above the Wizard's Vale, and Aragorn would have us free them."

"Men?" Elfhelm said, blankly.

"Two of Boromir's company who may yet live, but who languish in a dark prison without food or water now that their captors are slain." He crumpled the dispatch in one sturdy fist and grinned humorlessly at his companion. "Boromir has left us a task worth doing, Marshal Elfhelm. Are you with me?"

A light as fierce as any Gimli could muster sprang up in Elfhelm's eyes. "I am the King's to command, and yours, Gimli of Aglarond. Do but point me at these caves, and you will see how the Rohirrim can dig when the need arises. We may challenge even your Dwarves to keep pace with us!"

"Come, then. We have not a moment to lose." Gimli caught his horse's reins and would have called upon Elfhelm's aid in mounting, but the Man had turned to the messenger and paid him no heed.

"Do you ride again to the King?" he asked the Ranger.

"Nay, I am for Edoras, with letters for Éomer King." The man smiled wearily. "And mayhap for Gondor, if the Rohirrim have no rider to spare."

"You will not reach the Gap upon that horse. He is nearly spent. Our packhorses are fresh, having little weight to carry, and one of them will take you easily to the doors of the Golden Hall, if you do but treat him kindly."

"What of my faithful Andélan?"

"He will have naught but a few water skins to burden him and an easy journey when compared to yours. Look for him in Edoras when you hear of our return."

"I thank you, Marshal Elfhelm."

Elfhelm clapped him on the shoulder and sent him off to find the packhorses. Then he turned to Gimli, bending to offer his laced fingers as a step for the Dwarf's short legs. With a practiced heave, he tossed Gimli onto the high back of his mount.

"I am sorry that you cannot enjoy your celebration cup, Master Gimli, or the company of your friends."

"We will have time enough for such things, when we have your people safe and Boromir home."

Elfhelm swung easily into the saddle and laced the reins expertly between his fingers. "Think you we can find those men in time?"

"Aye."

"Are the caves not sealed long since? How will we find them, much less open them?"

"'Twas I who helped to seal them, and I remember well where the main entrances are to be found. As for opening them," he threw a grin over his shoulder at the Rider, as he kicked his horse into a canter, "I know just the Ent for the job!"

* * *

He had forgotten the feel of sunlight on his face, the smell of growing things, the sound of men's voices. So long had he dwelt in fetid darkness that these sensations struck him a physical blow and sent his mind reeling. He barely felt the pain of his wounds, as he was carried from the tent and laid upon a pallet by a large, crackling fire, overwhelmed as he was by the rush of openness and life all about him. Even the smell of the fire – the familiar, loathed stink of things burning – seemed almost welcoming in this place.

For some minutes they left him alone, giving him time to grow accustomed to his new surroundings and mentally find his balance. The move from his bed inside the tent to his place by the fire had started his body hurting in new and dreadful ways, and the familiar pain helped to clear his head. Slowly, the confusion of noise and scent about him began to take shape, and he realized that he was lying in the midst of a military encampment, filled with men of Rohan, Ithilien, Gondor and the West. Horses stamped and whinnied in the distance. Armor clanked and swords rattled, as the men strode by him on the King's business. Meat roasted over a fire – not this fire, thankfully – adding its smell to that of tired, sweaty men and horses.

A hand touched his brow, cool and light, drawing Boromir's attention from the camp at large to the group of people gathered close about him, and a musical voice spoke from above his head. "Think you that it is wise to do this now, Estel?"

Boromir recognized Arwen's voice and heard the concern in it. He tried to ask her what it was that upset her so, but he could not muster his strength or frame his words quickly enough to forestall Aragorn's answer.

"I must. The leg festers. 'Tis a wonder his blood is not yet poisoned by it."

"We have not the medicines and tools we need…"

"I _must_, Arwen." There came a pause, then Aragorn said, more fiercely still, "I will not sacrifice his leg or his life to a wound that I have the skill to heal!"

"You will do as you deem best, but still, I fear for him."

"Boromir can withstand it."

Deeming it time to make himself heard, Boromir forced his battered throat to work and whispered, "Withstand what? What are you about, Aragorn?"

"The business of healing you, my friend. Trust me."

Boromir wanted to deliver an acid reminder that he always trusted Aragorn, even when it seemed a patently foolish thing to do, but he found that he did not have the energy for it. Instead, he let his head sink more heavily into his pillow and grunted a sour, wordless acknowledgement.

What followed did naught to put his mind at ease. Aragorn issued a number of low-voiced commands, and before Boromir knew it, he found his arms crossed over his breast and held down by Faramir's strong grip, a thick piece of sour leather thrust between his teeth, and Legolas pinning his left leg to the ground with all his weight. Aragorn's familiar hands moved gently over him, turning aside the blanket to bare his leg, sponging water over his skin, then murmuring useless reassurances when he flinched away from the stinging heat.

The burning cloth was removed. Then came the soft rubbing of leather against metal and Legolas' voice, curious, asking, "What is that?"

Aragorn gave a grunt of humorless laughter. "A spoon. The smallest dagger in the camp was yet too large for such a delicate task, so I fashioned a surgical tool of my own. It took me all the morning with Feneldil's whetstone to put an edge on it."

Apprehension crawled over Boromir like dead fingers on his flesh, and he struggled briefly to free his leg from Legolas' grasp to no avail. The Elf's hold on him tightened.

Aragorn rested a hand on his thigh and spoke, in his most persuasive tone. "I am sorry, Boromir. I will hurt you no more than I must, but there is no way to clean such a wound without pain. Only trust that I will not push you past your body's endurance, and that when I am done, you will have some relief."

Spitting the leather from his mouth, Boromir asked, "What will you do?"

"Cut the rotten tissue from your leg and cleanse the wound. Then dress and bind it for the present, but it must remain open and be cleaned often to allow for healing."

"And when it is healed? What then?"

Aragorn sighed. "Let us get through this morning and leave such questions for later." The hunk of damp leather touched Boromir's lips again, and Aragorn urged, "Bite this, rather than your tongue."

Boromir obediently opened his mouth, so that Aragorn might slide the strip between his teeth, then he bit down hard on it. The fingers of apprehension trailed over his flesh again, but he fought the urge to shiver and shrink away. There was, after all, nowhere for him to go.

At the first touch of cold metal against his flesh, he shuddered. Then pain such as he had never known before lanced through him, dragging a cry of agony from his tortured throat. He thrashed and fought with all his waning strength, while the terrible blade cut ever deeper into him and the hands of ones he loved held him mercilessly, preventing his escape. The stench of corruption rose in a miasma to choke him, pitching him back into his memories of the Orc den and Uglúk's horny hands upon him. Hot blood gushed over his leg. He screamed again, the sound no more than a harsh croak in his ears, and in the next breath pitched into blessed darkness.

Unconsciousness spared Boromir the worst of Aragorn's surgery. He did not feel the sharpened spoon scraping rotten flesh from sound muscle or boiled, herb-scented water pouring into the gaping hole left in his leg. He knew nothing of his king's ministrations, until the neck of a silver flask was thrust between his teeth and _miruvor_ burned down his throat, bringing him back to himself.

With a sputter and a cough, he twisted his head away from the offered flask and gasped, "Aragorn!"

"Here." A familiar hand touched his face, then moved to rest upon his brow, and calming voice spoke from close beside him. "All is well, Boromir. I am done."

"Aragorn." His breath came in ragged sobs and the hand he lifted toward Aragorn's voice shook noticeably. The King clasped his hand strongly, stilling his tremors and the fear boiling up in him. "I thought, at the last, that it was Uglúk…"

"Nay, Uglúk is gone, and the nightmare is ended, as I promised you." Aragorn's fingers loosened for a moment, and Boromir felt a familiar hard, sharp object press into his palm. Then Aragorn tightened his clasp again, so that both men together held the small gem. "All is well."

"Aye," Boromir sighed. His overburdened mind slipped gently toward the beckoning darkness, and for once, he felt no coldness, no fear at its approach. "Aye," he breathed again, as Aragorn's lips touched his brow. Then he slept.

**_To be continued…_**


	12. All Roads Lead to Rohan

**Author's Note:** Hello, everyone, and HAPPY NEW YEAR! I hope you like my little present – the long-delayed Chapter 12, here at last – and that it helps get your year off to a good start. This chapter is a bit scattered, as it revisits all of the characters who've been ignored for awhile and draws several plot threads together (you can no doubt tell from the title where they're all headed). But hopefully it all makes sense to you.

Have a wonderful new year, and enjoy the chapter! – Chevy

* * *

**Chapter 12: _All Roads Lead to Rohan_**

Boromir sat alone in the quiet of the tent, a cup cradled, forgotten, in his hands as he listened intently to the noises filtering in from the camp. He heard a new note in the usual bustle of activity and knew, without having been told, what it portended. Aragorn had ordered the company to break camp.

Just where the King meant to take them he had no idea. Aragorn told him naught of his plans these days, confining his words to gentle but firm commands and reassurances, and Boromir had not the strength to demand more of him. Mayhap, when he could stay awake for as much as an hour together, Aragorn would treat him as his Steward again, and not merely a patient. In the meantime, he wanted sleep more than he did information.

With a weary sigh, he let his head sink back against the roll of furs that cushioned it and settled himself into a more comfortable position for sleep. Faramir had tampered with his cot, lowering it to the ground and propping up one end to support him, but fortunately, Boromir had learned – first as a soldier, then as a captive – to sleep where e'er he found himself. He could as easily sleep sitting up as lying down and had no need to summon aid in lowering the cot. He had the presence of mind to set his cup on the floor, beside his largely uneaten breakfast, so as not to spill it. Then he rested his hands upon his lap, weighed down as much by weariness as by the chains he wore, and let himself drift once more toward sleep.

The low murmur of voices brought him back to himself an uncounted time later. He awoke reluctantly, called from his rest by the certainty that Aragorn was with him, and heard snatches of conversation held over his head between the King and Legolas.

"You see? He, too, will eat nothing," Aragorn said in a troubled tone. "This cannot go on, Legolas, if they are to heal."

"How can you make them eat, if they will not?" the Elf asked.

Mustering what strength he could, Boromir turned to find Aragorn in the darkness and muttered, "I have eaten."

Aragorn sighed, and Boromir heard both weariness and frustration in the sound. "Three bites of waybread does not a meal make, Boromir. As your healer and your friend, I tell you that you must eat."

"Bring me a bowl of porridge," Boromir suggested.

"Porridge!" Aragorn exclaimed in disgust.

"You cannot live on porridge," Legolas chided.

"I ate naught else in all the weeks of my captivity, and it has done me no harm."

"It has done you a great deal of harm," Aragorn retorted. "You and Borlas both are near to starving! The wonder is that you could come so far from the Orcs' den, weak and sick as you are, and in all truth, I know not how you find the strength to sit up and talk to me even now. For you will not let me help you!"

The King paused to collect himself, then went on in a milder tone, "I have made a rich stew of fresh-caught fish and greens, with no smell of meat about it. I will sit here beside you, my friend, and watch you eat every drop. If you do not, then I will feed it to you myself, and the devil take your pride."

Boromir's stomach roiled at the thought. "'Tis not my pride that chokes me, Aragorn."

"I know it." The King's voice softened still more but did not lose its note of finality. "But you must know that more than your own life depends on what you do now."

Boromir frowned, confused by his words and feeling the first stirrings of unease. For himself, he feared nothing. He was safe in his king's care and knew that his own strength would suffice him. But his intimate knowledge of Aragorn's methods warned him that the cunning warrior was about to back him into a corner and force his surrender at the sword's point.

"Your page is gravely ill," Aragorn said, unexpectedly. "He suffers from lung sickness, brought on by cold, exhaustion and long weeks of near starvation. He burns with fever, which hastens the wasting of his body, yet he will eat naught but waybread soaked in water. Such a diet cannot sustain him, Boromir. He will die, and soon, if he goes on this way."

Boromir turned toward him, frowning, and his voice sharpened in alarm. "Why have you not told me of this before?"

"You have been in no fit state to hear it, and we hoped that his brother could bring him round, that we need not call upon you to help."

"What would you have me do?"

"Persuade him to eat as he should. He speaks often, in his delirium, of remaining faithful 'til the end, of dying with his lord. All his thoughts are of you and your refusal to eat man-flesh at Uglúk's command."

Boromir ordered himself not to shudder at these words, forced himself to say, with deceptive calm, "If he thinks himself still among the Orcs…"

"Nay, I will bring him to you when his mind is clear and he knows himself. Then, if he sees you eat the food I have prepared, he may agree to eat it, as well."

"And if I cannot?"

"You can." Aragorn's hand closed on his arm, lending him strength of purpose. "You have all your wits about you, and you know that what I offer you is not tainted. Your body may revolt, spurred to it by lurking memory, but you can overcome it for Borlas' sake."

For Borlas' sake. What had Boromir not overcome already for Borlas' sake? Darkness, fire, biting cold and merciless stone. The blades and whips and chains and cooking pots of the Orcs. Wounds and exhaustion. Horror and despair. To prove himself the warrior his loyal page so ardently believed him to be, he had slaughtered an entire nest of Uruk-hai and dragged a dying child out of the very bowels of the Misty Mountains. And was he now to cower in fear before a bowl of soup?

Pride stiffened Boromir's spine, and he gave a wordless nod of assent. Aragorn squeezed his arm in gratitude.

"I will fetch the boy," Legolas said, rising at once to his feet.

A moment later, the slap of canvas on canvas told Boromir that Legolas was gone and he was alone with the King.

"Aragorn."

Aragorn, who had begun to rummage in his ever-present pouch full of medicines, let his hands fall still and turned toward the sound of Boromir's voice. The touch of those keen, grey eyes, so familiar to Boromir through so many years spent at Aragorn's side, was warm upon his face and told him that he had his king's undivided attention.

"How ill is Borlas, in truth? Will he die?"

"He is gravely ill, but he may yet live."

"If he eats?"

"Aye. And if he finds the strength within himself to fight for his life."

A wry, pained smile lifted one corner of Boromir's mouth. "He is a soldier of Gondor. He will fight."

"So I believe."

Boromir heard the smile in Aragorn's voice, even as he felt sure, gentle fingers begin to daub healing salve upon his wrist. Aragorn lifted first one hand, then the other, to smear his soothing, herb-scented medicines over the gashes that circled Boromir's wrists. The salves were cool against burnt, torn, bruised flesh, and the smell reminded him of the high slopes of Mount Mindolluin or the green depths of Ithilien. He felt the tension drain from his body, leaving him limp with exhaustion but at peace, content to rest in his lord's expert hands and dream of home.

"There is no sign of infection," Aragorn murmured, drawing Boromir's mind from its peaceful wanderings. He felt cold air and Aragorn's deft touch on his leg, felt the familiar throb of his old wound. "It will heal faster when I can leave it open to the air, but I dare not in the dirt and bustle of the camp."

Something like a laugh was wrenched from Boromir. "After Uglúk's treatments, you need hardly fear honest soldiers' dirt."

"Whatever else Uglúk may have been, he was a skilled surgeon. He saved your leg."

"Aye."

Aragorn laid a dressing across the gaping wound and bound it lightly in place. "You will keep it, Boromir," he said, with soft insistence. "This is a hurt I can heal."

"To what end?" Boromir could not keep the edge of bitterness from his voice. "That I might wake in pain each morning, and drag it uselessly behind me through each day, always wishing that you or Uglúk had hacked it off?"

A hand clasped Boromir's arm, and the King's beloved voice spoke from close beside him. "Your leg will never be whole again. The wound is too deep and the damage too great. But I swear to you, by the love I bear you and the faith I have in you, Boromir of Gondor, that I will not suffer you to lose another part of yourself." Fingers brushed the bandage over Boromir's eyes, then rested on his head. "My Steward may walk with limp, but he will walk at my side again."

"Pretty words, but you cannot promise me so much."

"Do you doubt my word?"

"Nay, only your power to fill the cavern in my leg by sheer force of will."

What answer Aragorn may have given him was interrupted by the sound of voices outside the tent, warning of Legolas' return. Aragorn rose swiftly to his feet and headed for the doorway, saying, "I must help them with the boy."

Before Aragorn reached the tent flap, it opened, and a confusion of noises met Boromir's ears. Legolas he recognized by the smell of green things he always brought with him, and by the low, musical note of his voice. Others followed him into the tent, a woman to judge by the swishing of her skirts and a soldier dressed in leather and chain mail. Boromir was frowning to himself, trying to make out the names of his visitors, when he heard a terrible, rattling cough that drove all other thoughts from his mind.

"Borlas?"

"Aye, my lord." The boy drew nearer, carried in Legolas' arms, and Boromir could now hear the labored sound of his breathing even over the hum of voices around them.

"Peace, child," Legolas said, as he knelt at Boromir's left hand and lowered his burden to the ground. "Let us settle you and see to your comfort, then you may talk your fill with Prince Boromir."

"I am well enough," Borlas whispered in a voice made rough with much coughing, "only my chest aches so."

"I have a salve to ease your breathing," Aragorn assured him.

"And I have the meal Lord Elfstone promised you," a new voice said. Boromir recognized it instantly as Éowyn's. He heard her light step and the brush of her skirt as she moved up to his pallet and knelt beside him. With her came a less welcome sensation – the smell of cooked fish and pungent herbs – that made Boromir recoil slightly from her.

"Is the stew of your making, Sister?" he asked, in a weak attempt at humor. In all her years as Faramir's wife, the martial lady of Rohan had acquired many womanly skills, but she had never learned to cook. On some days, she took her husband's and brother's ribbing on the subject in good part. On others, she made them repent of their fun at her expense.

"Nay, my lord," Éowyn replied, gravely, "for you are ill enough already."

Boromir smiled at this sally, but he did not reach for the bowl she lifted from the tray to offer him.

"You must eat," she urged.

The steam from the offered bowl touched Boromir's face, and he turned his head away, muttering, "When Borlas is ready."

On his other side, Aragorn, Legolas and the soldier, whose voice was familiar but whose name escaped Boromir, busied themselves about Borlas, fussing with bolsters and furs and salves. Borlas coughed again, more weakly, and protested when the King pressed a cup of medicine upon him.

At last, Aragorn sent the others from the tent and crouched at Borlas' side to murmur, warmly, "Here is your lord, as promised, my lad. Now you may rest and cease your worrying."

"My Lord Steward." A small hand touched Boromir's arm, and Borlas' soft, rough-edged voice sounded close beside him. "The Lady Arwen said that you were well, but I feared…"

"You doubted the word of your queen?" Boromir chided.

"They would not let me see you." He coughed painfully, his fingers clutching at Boromir's sleeve, and whispered between labored breaths, "I… I heard Orc voices in the darkness. I dreamed that I was in Uglúk's pen and you were gone and I was alone… and then I feared… feared it was not a dream."

"Peace, Borlas." He moved to cover Borlas' hand with his own but halted when he felt the pull of the chain and heard its ugly rasp.

Borlas gave a cry of dismay. "Your chains!"

Then the boy began to cough in earnest, his frail body shaking so hard that Boromir could feel his hand tremble and the fingers close helplessly on his sleeve. Forgetting the weight of his shackles, Boromir clasped the claw-like hand firmly and drew Borlas close. The boy's body fell against his side. Boromir lifted his chained hands over Borlas' head, then put an arm around him to support him, while the dreadful coughs still wracked his frame.

"Breathe easy," Boromir murmured, as he held the shaking body to him. "The Orcs were but a dream, and I am real. There is naught to fear, now. The King will take us home. You will see your father again. You will ride with me across the Pelennor and through the cool woods of Anórien, and we will forget the black pits of the Orcs. We will stand on Mindolluin on a winter's night, breathe the clean air of home, and listen to the stars sing."

Slowly, under the spell of Boromir's words, Borlas' terrible spasms began to ease. His coughing ceased, and while his breath sounded painful to Boromir's ears, he no longer struggled to draw air into his tortured lungs. When he could summon the strength to speak, he asked, plaintively, "We are going home?"

"Aye."

"We leave at dawn tomorrow," Aragorn said.

At the sound of the King's voice, Borlas started and made as if to push himself away from Boromir. "I b-beg your pardon, my lord King," he gasped.

"Do not. Only be still and rest," Boromir said.

"It is not seemly…"

Boromir gave a soft snort of amusement. "I will be the judge of what is seemly. Who taught you to say such things, I wonder? Would it be my esteemed squire?"

"Gil said…"

"I do not want to hear what Gil said." Even as he spoke, Boromir privately reflected that he would dearly like to hear anything Borlas could tell him of his squire, so terribly did he miss the sound of her dry, flat, infinitely welcome voice, but he could not allow the child to trouble himself with Gil's nonsensical scruples at such a time. "'Tis I, your steward, to whom you owe your allegiance, not my squire, and I say that you will lie still. The King will think none the less of you for it."

"Aye, lord," Borlas murmured into the fabric of Boromir's shirt.

The Steward felt his page's weight settle against him once more, felt a small head rest in the hollow of his shoulder, and he smiled to himself. "Have you satisfied yourself that the Lady Arwen spoke true, and that I am well?"

"Aye. But your chains… Why must you wear them? They are dreadful!"

Forcing his voice into a semblance of bantering humor, Boromir said, "Would you have the King strike them off with his own sword? He'd as like take off my hands with them. Nay, I will wait until he finds the proper tools, and gladly, rather than sully Andúril's blade with such as these."

"They are dreadful," Borlas repeated, softly. A finger touched the raw wound torn in Boromir's wrist by the iron that circled it. "How do you bear them so lightly?"

"I trust in Aragorn. If he bids me wait, I wait." Drawing his arm from about Borlas' shoulders, the Steward set his teeth and added, grimly, "And if he bids me eat, I eat. As will you, Master Page."

"M-my lord?" Borlas faltered.

Aragorn stirred suddenly, and Boromir heard the soft rasp of a bowl being lifted from a wooden tray. In the next moment, that bowl was pressed into his hands, and the smell of cooked fish rose on a curl of steam to choke him. Stubbornly, he swallowed his rising gorge and forced himself to speak evenly.

"You and I both must put our trust in the King."

"You would have me eat that… that…"

"Fish stew. There is naught foul in it."

"I cannot." The boy's voice was thick with tears and loathing.

"Can you not?"

It took every particle of strength Boromir possessed to lift the bowl to his lips, but as always, Gondor's Steward summoned what strength he needed to face his enemy, and no flicker of revulsion showed in his face as he tilted the bowl and drank. Hot, thick soup filled his mouth. His throat tightened painfully, refusing to let him swallow for a moment, but his stubbornness won the day again, and he forced a mouthful of liquid down his gullet. Still with no hint of sickness his face, he lowered the bowl and turned to his page.

"You see, Borlas? You need fear naught that the King offers you."

Borlas did not answer him, but sat in numb silence, while Aragorn moved around the pallet to give him his own bowl. Boromir heard the doleful sniff he gave, and then the low grunt of disgust as he recoiled from the smell of the food. "Must I, in truth, drink this?"

"Aye."

"If you bid me, my lord…"

"Aye." Boromir swallowed another mouthful, more easily this time, though his stomach churned in protest at being forced to hold such rich stuff after weeks of emptiness. "I bid you. Drink."

Borlas obediently sipped at his bowl, gagging slightly when he tried to swallow. Then he coughed harshly and whispered, "I will obey you to the death, my lord. Though I fear I will be sick…"

"Drink slowly," Aragorn urged. "Give your body time to remember what food is for."

Boromir took yet another sip, then waited for Borlas to do the same. He fancied that he could feel the boy's gaze on him, following his every move and mirroring what he did. For every mouthful that Boromir ate, Borlas managed one of his own, until Boromir set aside his bowl at last. It was not yet empty, but he deemed that one more sip would bring all that he had eaten back up, and he would have to begin the ordeal again. Not to mention that he would shame himself before both his king and his page. So he put his meal aside unfinished and lay back against his supporting cot with a small sigh of weariness.

"I am done, Aragorn," he muttered.

The King chuckled quietly, as he placed the bowls on the tray and slid it away from Boromir's pallet. "Aye, you are done. Rest now, my friend, and let my medicines do their work."

"What of Borlas?"

"He will stay here, with you, until we break camp. Mayhap you can persuade him to eat his breakfast as readily as he did his supper."

Borlas stirred and laid a hand on Boromir's arm. "It did not taste of Orc meat," he murmured sleepily, "but I had rather have porridge."

Aragorn said something more, but Boromir could not make out his words. He was nearly asleep, his body weighted down and his mind clouded with exhaustion. He could still feel Borlas' hand on his arm, and he knew when Aragorn clasped his shoulder in farewell, but he had barely enough time to wonder how he could possibly ride as far as Minas Tirith and to tell himself that Aragorn would solve that problem, too, before the painless darkness claimed him.

* * *

The stone broke with a great, rumbling crash. Dust and debris boiled up from the falling rubble, briefly choking the sunlight that poured through the hole behind it. Gimli paused, leaning upon his pick, to wipe the grit from his eyes, then he squinted at the huge, leafy head silhouetted against the autumn sky.

"My thanks, Quickbeam."

The Ent lifted one hand and casually tore another chunk of rock from the side of the hole he had made, crumbling it between his long fingers. "Is this light and air enough for your task, my friend?"

"Aye, for the present."

"What of the western dig, Master Bregalad?" Elfhelm asked, coughing to clear the dust from his parched throat. "Have you word from Fangorn?"

"Ha, hmmm. We shall see." Quickbeam twisted gracefully to face outward, toward the green bowl of Isengard, and lifted his hands to form a kind of horn about his mouth. "HOOOOM HOMMM!" His voice rang through the valley, echoing off its steep sides and sending birds flapping up from the trees that filled its bottom. After a moment's pause to let his trumpeting call die away, he called again, forming words that had no meaning to the Dwarf and Man listening but that brought a deeper, distant call in answer.

Quickbeam listened intently, then he turned and spoke to the pair awaiting his news inside the tunnel. "Fangorn has found the westernmost doorway but no sign of Men."

Elfhelm sighed and scrubbed at the filth on his cheek with one sleeve. His hands were black with dirt, bloodied where his skin had torn under the assault of wooden pick handle and remorseless stone. Battle-hardened as he was, this Rider had little experience of such labor as this, and all his eagerness to reach the trapped Riders could not give him a Dwarf's horned hands or tireless arms. He seemed to wilt at the Ent's words.

"We lost three days upon our journey and have searched in vain for two nights and a day since."

"And will search on for another fortnight together, if we must," Gimli growled.

"Aye, but to what end? How long can Éothain and his companion live, trapped in these caves without food or water?"

"I know not." The Dwarf hefted his pick and began to plow a path through the rubble that littered the tunnel floor, making for the end of the passage and yet another of Saruman's storage caves. "But I will search, though all hope is lost."

"As will I." Elfhelm swung his pick to his shoulder and moved after the Dwarf.

Behind them, Quickbeam hummed and hoomed softly to himself, while he idly pulled away bits of rock from the thick walls.

The light from Quickbeam's hole illuminated a long stretch of the passage, overwhelming the light of the torch carried by the young Rider who followed on Elfhelm's heels. But the lad did not douse the flame, knowing that it would cost him precious minutes to light it again when they moved deeper into the tunnel.

Elfhelm found a door, just where the flood of daylight faded into dusk and the torch began to flare more brightly. He paused outside it, knocking lightly upon it with the handle of his pick. It gave a muffled thud, telling the Rider that the wood was both thick and strong. The Wizard had built his doors well, no rot or pests eating away at the wood to weaken it and aid those seeking to break it, but most of the locks had long since been sprung by Orc axes and most of the caves emptied.

By the light of the torch, Elfhelm studied the iron latch. "The Uruks have been here."

Gimli grunted and tugged at the remains of the rusted lock. The door swung ponderously outward, groaning on its hinges, to reveal a dark, musty cave, empty but for a litter of discarded junk on the floor. Elfhelm stepped inside, but Gimli turned away in disgust. He did not care to solve the riddle of what Saruman kept in this hole that the Orcs had found useful. Any curiosity he might have felt had long since faded, as he tramped through chamber after chamber, tunnel after tunnel, always finding more to investigate but no captives to free.

He did not need much light to move in the tunnels. His dwarfish eyes could see in far darker holes than this. So he left the youth and his torch with Elfhelm and ventured down the passage alone. It ended only fifty paces on, at yet another low wooden door. This one bore the mark of Orc axes upon it, and the latch looked to have been wrenched from the wood. A rough beam, possibly torn from another door, was braced against it where once a lock had been fixed to the wood, the other end driven hard into the stone floor of the tunnel.

Gimli tested the strength of the beam with one hand, then turned to bellow down the passage, "Marshal Elfhelm! Bring your light!"

Elfhelm came running at his call and skidded to a stop beside him, the torchbearer only a few paces behind him. Before Elfhelm could speak, Gimli pointed to the beam and asked, "What do you make of that, eh?"

"A lock," Elfhelm answered, promptly.

"Aye, but a lock to keep something inside the room, not to keep Orcs out."

Hefting his pick in both hands, Gimli swung it round in an arc to bring it up beneath the beam, with all the strength of his mighty arms behind the blow. The beam's end scraped up the door, gouging splinters from the surface, then it tumbled to the side and fell to the floor with a dull thud. Eflhelm snatched the torch from the youth's hands and, by its light, studied the door for some handhold.

"Stand back," Gimli ordered. The Riders drew away from the door, and once again, the Dwarf swung his pick with all his might. The point sank deep into the wood, just above the latch. Bracing his legs wide, Gimli heaved on the pick, and the door began to groan upon its hinges, moving reluctantly outward. The moment the edge of the door cleared its jamb, Elfhelm thrust his fingers inside to grip it and added his strength to Gimli's. Between them, they flung the door wide.

Flickering torchlight moved over stacked barrels, bottles, skins and chests. Empty bottles and limp wineskins littered the floor, along with the hard rinds of old cheese and a lump of bread well-chewed by rats. The cave stank of sweat, filth and wine, overlaid by the stench of Orc, so that the young Rider fell back from the doorway, gagging. But Gimli and Elfhelm pushed into the room, holding the torch aloft.

Something rustled in the shadows. Elfhelm stepped toward the sound, then froze when he heard a groan and saw a sudden movement in the torchlight. The hand that held the torch shook visibly, making the light dance, and a disbelieving cry was torn from his throat. For there, gazing up at him in wonder, eyes narrowed painfully against the light, was a pale, filthy, twisted face – the face of a Man.

"Éothain!" Elfhelm lunged toward the sprawled figure, reaching to clasp his emaciated arm and pull him into an embrace that threatened to crush his bones to dust. "'Tis you, indeed! Éothain, my friend!" Suddenly, he recoiled, his face showing his distress, and gasped, "Ye gods, you reek of wine!"

"He's drunk," Gimli said. Turning to the other figure lolling behind Éothain in the darkness, he sniffed cautiously and added, "As is his companion. Phew! The stink of them would stun a troll!"

Éothain's vacant, bloodshot eyes rolled to Gimli, and his mouth fell slackly open. Pulling it shut again, he murmured, "I have drunk myself to madness, at last, or else that is a Dwarf out of Aglarond." His body slid from Elfhelm's clasp and sagged to the floor, as his eyes drifted closed. "Pass me another skin, I pray you… I would hear him speak again…"

"And so you shall, Master Éothain," Gimli rumbled, his voice unwontedly gentle, "without the need of drink. Leave off the Wizard's wine, and come with us, back into the world of Men. Come."

With that, he stooped to lift the other Rider over his broad shoulders, bearing his weight easily, though the Man's long legs touched the floor. Elfhelm and the youngster supported Éothain between them, and together, they made their slow and staggering way up the passage to where Quickbeam awaited them. As the Ent took him in his long-fingered hands and lifted him into the sunlight, Éothain uttered a tearing sob and went suddenly limp.

"Hoom," Quickbeam remarked, his eyes laughing and triumphant, "this one needs an Ent draught to revive him."

Gimli clambered through the hole in the tunnel wall and out onto the path that cut across the hillside. Lowering his burden to the ground, he turned to gaze at the deep vale of Isengard below and breathed deeply of the fresh, chill air, a smile of satisfaction on his face. "Let us to Orthanc, Master Ent, and quickly." His smile widened, and his eyes gleamed as brightly as the Ent's. "I must send word to Edoras, and to Aragorn. Then may we all share an ent-draught and drink a pledge, to a job well done!"

* * *

It was near dusk, and the wind blew bitterly cold from the north, when Aragorn reined in at the top of a steep, treacherous slope to gaze intently at a dark smudge against the sky. Beside him, Faramir lifted a hand to shade his eyes, then grunted with satisfaction.

"Smoke. That would be Gimli's village, I deem."

Aragorn nodded, his eyes still fixed on the distant smoke.

"I had begun to fear that we had missed it among these cursed hills."

"We have traveled but slowly," Aragorn murmured.

Too slowly, Aragorn thought, but he kept that to himself. No need to worry Faramir with what could not be mended. They would press on, not halting to make camp, and mayhap sleep beneath a solid roof tonight. For himself, Aragorn cared naught for roofs and beds, but for Boromir and the boy, shelter might mean life.

Four days they had toiled their way southward. Encumbered as they were with the horse litter that carried Boromir and the sick boy lying bundled in Legolas' arms, they picked a tortuous path through broken hills and barren dales, never at more than a walking pace. As gently as Aragorn treated his patients, and as often as he halted to give them rest in spite of his own fretting to be gone, the strain of the journey told on their weakened bodies, which only slowed the company's progress. Borlas' lung sickness lingered, his fever burning unchecked, while Boromir slipped into a stupor of pain and exhaustion from which Aragorn could seldom rouse him.

The King knew that he must find shelter, medicine, better food and a warm place to rest for both Steward and Page, or they would perish ere they reached Edoras. The hamlet that Gimli had described to them was mean and poor, with little to offer a king's company, but it would be enough. He would find what he needed there.

Nudging Roheryn with his heels, Aragorn turned the horse about and trotted slowly back toward the group of horsemen waiting in the winding valley below. Faramir fell in at his side.

"Can we make it that far by nightfall?" he asked.

"We must." They reached Legolas and Bergil, waiting at the front of the column, and Aragorn called, loudly enough to be heard by all, "The village lies south and east a league, as the _crebain_ flies. Our road is longer. Follow me."

Without further ado, he pointed Roheryn's head to the east, along the narrow valley, and urged him forward. The company fell in behind him, and they rode into the gathering dusk.

* * *

Aragorn splashed across the stream and into the yard of the smithy with Legolas beside him. Light gleamed from the open doors and windows of the building, painting bright patches on the ground and beckoning to the travelers in the thickening darkness. A great block of a man, as brown as if he had sprung straight from the earth, stood framed in the wide doorway, his thumbs hooked in the ties of a greasy leather apron, his face in deep shadow and unreadable. The dog at his side growled and bristled, making feints at the horses.

Reining in a circumspect distance from the dog's snapping teeth, Aragorn nodded politely to the man and said, at his mildest, "Good evening to you, Master Smith."

The man grunted and jerked his head in curt acknowledgement of the greeting, but he moved no closer to the mounted strangers, nor made any attempt to restrain the great beast at his side.

Aragorn swung himself from the saddle and handed his reins to Legolas, then he stepped forward, into the light spilling from the smithy's open doors without regard for the threatening growls of the dog. "My companions and I ride south, for Rohan. We have been many long weeks upon the road and would beg your hospitality for a night or two."

"Companions?" the smith said, his dark gaze flicking to where the Elf still sat his horse in placid silence.

"The others follow, with our wounded."

"This be no inn."

"It be a stout building with a roof and a hearth. We need no more than that, my good Smith, and will pay for what we use."

"Be ye horse-breeders?" the man growled, his mouth contorted as if the words soured his tongue.

"Nay." Aragorn hesitated, uncertain which of his many names to give, then shrugged inwardly and spoke the simple truth. "I am Elessar of Gondor, and this is Legolas the Elf, Lord of Henneth Annûn." Even in this benighted place, the name of Gondor's King might command some little respect, and though Aragorn had no wish to frighten the man or compel his service, he also deemed that he could not pass himself off as a mere Ranger, in spite of his plain garb, with Princes, Elves and men-at-arms in his train.

The smith seemed more suspicious than cowed by the lofty names given him, and he eyed Aragorn with growing disfavor. "King of Gondor, is it?" He hawked and spat into the dust at his feet, then opined to the air about him, "Ar. I'll believe that."

Legolas smiled, his teeth gleaming in the darkness. "Believe as you like, my friend, it makes no odds to us. But tell us, where might we stable our horses and house our sick and wounded?"

The man waved one hand toward the sharp hills that closed off the valley to the south. "Get you to the Great Road, yonder. There be inns and taverns enough for any king."

At that Legolas leapt gracefully from Arod's back and stepped up close at Aragorn's shoulder. His face was stern, no smile lingering upon it, and his eyes hard. "We cannot ride so far nor wait so long to aid our friends. Would you turn honest travelers, who ask naught of you but shelter, from your door?"

"We Dunlendings look to our own."

"And to naught else, it seems."

"We have no truck with strangers, be they Lords, Elves," his gaze shifted Aragorn, "or Kings."

When Legolas would have answered in kind, Aragorn silenced him with a hand on his arm. "Very well, Master Smith. We'll not compel your kindness. But ere we go, I have need of a smith's skill, for which I will pay what price you deem fair."

The man's head came up sharply. "Eh?"

As if summoned by Aragorn's words, the sound of riders came to them from the deep fold of the valley, and a torch gleamed out of the night. Aragorn saw the smith's face tighten in sudden alarm, and he lifted a hand toward him, open to show his empty palm. "Nay, do not fear them. You have the word of King Elessar that we will take naught from you by force nor do any violence to your people."

Turning to look over his shoulder, Aragorn saw the small group of horsemen approaching through the village, drawing slowly abreast of the smithy. Faramir came first, mounted on his own horse and leading the first of the two packhorses that carried the litter. A squire in the white and green of Ithilien rode beside him, holding a torch aloft, while Bergil kept pace with the litter. He held a bundle of blankets on the saddle before him, a tousled black head poking out of them.

Legolas stepped forward to meet Faramir, as the weary horses splashed across the stream and into the yard. He took the packhorse's reins from Faramir's hand and murmured, "There is no welcome here for us, my prince."

In the flickering light of the torch, Faramir looked suddenly haggard. "What means the King to do?"

Legolas shook his head and drew the horses forward, into the largest patch of light spilling from the smithy, so that it fell upon the litter and the man lying upon it. Aragorn stepped quickly up to Boromir's side. His face was drawn with concern, but his hand was steady as he let it fall gently upon the hair of the sleeping man.

"Boromir?"

The Steward gave no sign of life, but the smith loomed suddenly up on the other side of the litter, and Aragorn heard his startled intake of breath. Glancing up at the man, wondering at the strangely intent expression he wore, Aragorn said, "These chains upon his throat and wrists, can you strike them off?"

"Ar."

"Make haste, then, for we must make camp and prepare a place for him to rest, ere the night grows colder."

"I know this man. Taken by Orcs, he was. Or so said the Dwarf."

"Aye, so he was," Legolas said, "but he slew the Orcs and came out of the mountains' roots alive, for even the evil spawn of Saruman, the Fighting Uruk-hai, could not hold him."

"He is Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and my dearest friend," Aragorn said, in a tone so laden with sorrow and love that even the dour smith could not miss it.

Wide, dark eyes lifted to Aragorn's face, and the voice that spoke to him held no suspicion, no anger, naught but wonder and dawning belief. "Ar, and you be, in truth, the King?"

* * *

Aragorn knelt on the floorboards of the tiny room, his head barely clearing the low-pitched roof, and watched his patients with anxious, frowning eyes. The room was warm, too warm for Aragorn's comfort, thanks to the stone chimney that filled one wall and the heat of the forge that rose from between the wooden planks of the floor, and it was lit only by a single tallow candle fixed in an iron bracket on the chimney. Not since his days as a Ranger in the wild North had Aragorn found shelter in such a poor and unwelcoming place, but the warm, quiet darkness seemed to ease the rest of both Steward and Page. They lay quietly upon their pallets, deeply asleep, their faces peaceful in the flickering light.

White showed at Boromir's throat and wrists – the white of clean linen bandages – and the sight of it brought to Aragorn's mind the earlier scene in the smithy. He saw again the smith's powerful hands wielding his chisel and hammer, saw bright steel bite into cold iron, and felt again his innards clench when the chisel's blade cut hideously close to Boromir's throat. But the smith's aim was true, his skill undeniable, and the shackles fell at last from his friend's body to lie in the filthy straw. Boromir was truly free, and Aragorn could heal his hurts without the foul, orcish iron to impede him.

Gently, Aragorn settled Boromir's arms beneath the coverlet and pulled it up about his shoulders. He crouched between the pallets for another moment, satisfying himself that both of his charges slept in comfort, then he edged backward through the hole in the floor that gave access to the attic room. His feet found the iron rungs set into the wall, and he climbed nimbly down into the smithy below. Faramir awaited him there, staring anxiously up at the hole, clutching the two empty wooden cups that Aragorn had tossed down to him some minutes before.

"All is well?" he asked, before the King's feet were firmly on the ground.

"Aye. Boromir sleeps."

"And he drained his cup. This is a good sign, is it not?"

"It is, but they both need more sustaining foods than my draughts. I will speak to our host about what provisions we may find in the village."

Faramir pulled a wry face, as they strode toward the door that let into the kitchen. "'Tis not much of a village. A collection of goatherds' huts, I deem, no more."

"Goats. Hmm." Halting just outside the door, his hand on the latch, Aragorn turned to ask, "What of the company? Have they found a suitable camp?"

Faramir nodded. "By the north pasture. There is water enough and some fodder for the horses."

"So long as we remember that we are guests here, and these folk have little enough for themselves without extra men and horses to feed."

"Legolas and Arahael will see to it that we take naught from the villagers and do no damage to their grazing land."

"They have returned to the camp?"

"Aye, with Éowyn and young Bergil, though I doubt he will stay away from his brother for long."

"Speaking of brothers," Aragorn cocked an eyebrow at him and smiled, wearily, "I know you are anxious to be at your own brother's side."

"I am, if you need me not, my lord."

Aragorn's smile widened and his eyes softened with affection. He waved a hand toward the metal rungs of the ladder. "Get you to Boromir. Mayhap you will actually sleep, if you are near enough to hear his snoring."

"My thanks, Elessar."

Aragorn nodded and waited until Faramir had clambered up the ladder, disappearing through the hole in the ceiling. Then he opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.

The room was nearly as small as the attic chamber in which Boromir slept, though it's ceiling was high enough that Aragorn could stand upright without touching the heavy beams that supported it. A packed dirt floor was strewn with rushes, and an open stone hearth filled one wall, a fire burning merrily upon it that smelled unpleasantly of peat. Clearly, the smith wasted neither space nor scarce fuel on his living quarters, though the tiny kitchen was as clean and orderly as the smithy.

In the middle of the room, seated at a roughhewn table, looking regal and as serenely beautiful as ever, was Arwen. She kept her hands folded on the scarred wood before her and followed the smith with clear, smiling eyes as he shuffled about and cast embarrassed glances at her over his shoulder. Ten minutes in Aragorn's company had served to banish his wariness of Gondor's King, but no passage of time would allow him to feel easy in the presence of Arwen Undómiel.

Arwen looked up at Aragorn's entrance, and her face shadowed with concern. "You look weary, Estel."

"I could sleep a day and a night together, I think." He sank down on a stool and propped his forearms on the table, letting his head droop between his shoulders for a moment. "Give me a piece of floor and a blanket, and I will do just that."

"Eat, first." She pushed a cup toward him. "And drink. Master Cael's ale is most excellent."

The smith grunted without turning around. Aragorn caught a delicious whiff of roasting meat from the hearth, and his stomach gave a loud, rumbling demand. He raised the cup and took a long swallow to appease his empty stomach.

"A fine brew," he agreed, as he lowered the cup again. "Do you make it here in the village?"

Cael turned from the fire, a wide wooden platter between his hands. On the platter lay a roasted haunch of pork that sizzled and steamed in a manner so inviting that Aragorn's stomach promptly made itself heard again. The smith plunked it down in front of Aragorn without ceremony, then slapped some tin plates, a loaf of bread and a clay pitcher of ale onto the table with it.

Always ready to conform his manners to his company, Aragorn did not hesitate to pull out his own dagger and begin carving the meat. He quickly filled three plates, pushed one to Arwen, another to Cael, and pulled one in front of himself. Arwen tore the bread into chunks, while Cael fetched more cups from the wooden shelves at his back and poured the ale. In a matter of minutes, they all three were eating steadily, too intent on their meals to bother with conversation.

Aragorn had not realized how hungry he was until he smelled the cooking meat, and now he forgot his kingly dignity in the sheer pleasure of filling his belly. There was something to be said, he reflected as he mopped the juices from his plate with a hunk of bread, for living the Ranger's life. No linens to soil, no courtesies to be observed, just quiet companionship and a hearty meal.

He was just beginning to feel comfortably full when the smith remarked, around a mouthful of bread, "I trade for the ale. Nowt to make it from hereabouts."

It took Aragorn a moment to remember what had spurred this seemingly random remark, then he nodded understanding and took another swallow of the brew. "You have not the land for growing grain."

"We get what ale and beer we can in trade, and we drink Old Morag's mead, when we've nowt else."

"Mead." Aragorn's head came up sharply. "From honey?"

"Ar. Keeps bees, does Morag. Only beasts in all Middle-earth will go next or nigh the filthy old crone."

"Master Cael, I have great need of some honey. Where might I find Old Morag? And what might I offer her in trade that would tempt her to part with a few jars her honey?"

"There's no saying with that one. But say nowt of crowns or lords, and send no fine ladies to treat with her," he bobbed his head at Arwen in a kind of bow, "meaning no disrespect to the Queen."

"I quite understand," Arwen murmured, with a smile. Then, to Aragorn, she added, "The honey is for Boromir's wound?"

"Aye. 'Tis just the medicine he needs to ward off infection. I had not hoped to find any in so remote a place, but mayhap we can barter with this Morag for enough to last the journey south."

Arwen mulled this over, and then offered, "Send Faramir. There is no crone living who would deny him."

Aragorn laughed softly and lifted his cup in a salute to his wife. "Such wisdom and such beauty. I am a fortunate man, indeed." He felt much of his weariness fade with this new hope, and it was with a good deal more vigor that he turned to the smith and said, briskly, "Honey is but the first and most worrisome of my needs, Master Cael. I have also great need of milk, eggs, healing herbs and, if there is one to be had in this benighted place, a sturdy cart."

The smith raised his heavy brows at that, continuing to chew his food with slow deliberation, while Aragorn waited. At last, he pushed his plate away and braced both his hands upon the table's edge. "You'll not be wanting much then, will you, King of Gondor?"

Aragorn met this dry sally with a chuckle. "Nay, not so much. What say you, my good smith?"

"A cart I have, but 'tis not such as a king would ride in. Nor can I sell it, even to you, my lord, for 'tis needed here."

"Loan it me, then. I can leave one of our packhorses as surety against its return, and send it back laden with goods from the rich southern plains."

"Hmph." Cael scowled thoughtfully into the depths of his cup, gnawing on his underlip, until finally he heaved a tremendous sigh and rumbled, "Ar. That I will do."

"My thanks, Cael! My most sincere thanks! I will see to it that your village prospers by your generosity. And now, for the rest. I saw chickens enough when we rode in; are there eggs to be had in the village? Milk? Have you a healer who brews simples and the like?"

"Eggs there are aplenty. For the rest, ask the goat girl."

The goat girl proved to be a woman of uncertain age, who lived in a hut of mud and straw halfway up the side of the valley. Her goats did not graze in the meager bit of pasture to the north, with the hamlet's other beasts, but shared her hut and roamed the hillsides with her in search of food. She wanted naught to do with kings or soldiers, and would speak no word to Aragorn when he came to treat with her. Éowyn had more success. She returned to the smithy with a fat milk goat and a pouch full of medicinal herbs, for the goat girl was the local healer, as well as the local oddity.

Old Morag softened to Faramir's grave courtesy, just as Arwen had predicted, trading him several stone jars of honey for his best fur-lined cloak. Then she added a dozen fresh eggs to the bargain when he smiled his thanks, causing the smith to declare flatly that Faramir must have bewitched her.

"She's never given nowt but curses for the asking," he said, eyeing the Prince with mingled respect and suspicion. "Belike the eggs are poisoned."

Untroubled by his host's fears, Aragorn beat the raw eggs into fresh milk, sweetened it with honey, and persuaded Boromir to drink the concoction. Borlas followed his lord's example, as always, and drained his own cup without a murmur. Then they slept again, and awoke to another cup of Aragorn's filling mixture, the dressing of their wounds, and another undisturbed night in their warm attic room.

They remained in the village for three days, by which time Borlas' cough had lessened, his fever abated, and Boromir shaken off the terrible lethargy that had claimed him on the journey. The Steward now had the strength to sit up and take notice when Aragorn paid him a visit, and even to offer his opinion of the new dressing used on his wound.

"It attracts flies," he said, through gritted teeth, as Aragorn smeared honey around the cavern in his leg.

"I will post Faramir at your bedside, night and day, to brush them away," Aragorn answered.

Boromir gave a grunt of laughter, then tensed at the feel of Aragorn's fingers against his inflamed, swollen flesh. "He'll not thank you for that."

"Ah, but he will. He wants naught but an excuse to fix himself at your side and forget his princely duties all together."

"While I would trade this bed for a host of duties in a… Ah! Plague take you, Aragorn! What are you about?"

"I am sorry, but I must get honey inside the lips of the wound. I am nearly done."

Swallowing another cry, Boromir fell back against his pillow and flung one arm up to cover his face. "At least I can move freely again," he muttered, when he could catch his breath.

"Aye." Aragorn glanced up from his work to gaze sadly at his friend's drawn, pale face for a moment, then he ducked his head again. "The chains were a burden to us all."

"I dreamt of them, the sound of them, grating in my ears like Orcs' voices." He fell silent, shuddering as Aragorn slid a sticky finger into his wound, then spoke again in a quiet, pain-edged voice that was muffled by his sleeve. "Chains and claws and stone and the stink of cooking flesh. I fear I will never escape those dreams, now."

"Mayhap you will not, but think on this, Boromir. Those Orcs are dead, slain by your own hand, and can torment you no more. You do not wear their chains. You did not eat of that tainted flesh."

In answer, Boromir lowered his arm and reached, instinctively, for the white gem that hung once more about his neck on a leather thong. His fingers closed fiercely about it.

"When the Orcs come into your dreams," Aragorn murmured, "remind yourself of these things. How can their shadows defeat you, when the Orcs themselves could not?"

After a long moment of silence, Boromir asked, "Do you ever dream of your own captivity, Aragorn? Of the dungeons of Orthanc and Saruman's voice?"

"A king has little time for sleep and less for dreams," he quipped, but the look on Boromir's face sobered him, and he added more seriously, "It has never haunted me as it does you, mayhap because I saw those horrors with my eyes alone, and my eyes now look upon fairer things."

"What if you were to see another such dungeon?"

"Then would I recoil as fiercely as you do from smoke and stone." Laying a hand on Boromir's shoulder, he said, "I shall tell you that which even Arwen does not know, since you, of all men, will understand."

"What is it?"

"That I, King of Gondor, have not once set foot in the dungeons of Minas Tirith since my crowning some four years ago."

"What king frequents his own dungeons?"

"Ah, but it was not my kingly rank that held me back. 'Twas my churning stomach and sweating palms. So you see, Boromir, that you are not the only one who still bears the scars of that battle."

Boromir regarded him steadily, as if he could still read Aragorn's face with his ruined eyes. "We are both fools to be haunted by shadows."

"Well do I know it."

"There is naught in Minas Tirith to harm us. Or will not be," he temporized, "when Imrahil has thrown that cur, Taleris, into the very foulest of your dungeons."

"If he has not by the time we return, you may have the pleasure."

"Not if we have no more proof of his treasons than when I left…"

"Peace, Boromir. Let us not talk of treason just now. I cannot cover the leagues from here to Minas Tirith any faster for worrying, and I would not speak of what I cannot mend."

"Then let us go at once," Boromir urged. "Do not linger here on my account, Aragorn. I am strong enough to travel and as eager as you are to be home."

"We leave on the morrow."

Relief washed over Boromir's face, looking much like pain in one so drawn and weak. "For Minas Tirith? Ah, Aragorn, I cannot tell you how I have longed to be within her walls again!"

"So you shall, but not all at once. First to Rohan, and then, when we are safe beneath Éomer's roof, we will talk of Gondor, Taleris, the war and how best to aid our people."

With this Boromir had to be content. He slept the night, undisturbed by dreams, and on the morrow found himself bundled into the blacksmith's cart with Borlas, wrapped thickly in furs, supported by bolsters and pillows, surrounded by jars of honey and other provisions bartered from the villagers for their journey. A goat bleated piteously nearby, and the pony harnessed to the cart whickered in reply. Faramir and Legolas sat their restive mounts at either side of the cart, trading jokes and casual talk with each other and with Boromir, when he bestirred himself to answer them.

Then came a shout from the head of the column, a terse farewell from the smith, and the cart lurched forward. Boromir stifled a cry, as one wheel jolted over a stone and his wounded leg bounced against the hard wood of the cart, then he set his teeth and steeled himself to endure the long, rough journey in silence.

* * *

"I say, Merry! Look there!"

Merry followed Pippin's pointing finger to where a glint of moving silver showed through the trees. Clapping his heels to his pony's flanks, Merry urged his mount into a trot that carried him quickly out of the copse through which they rode and into the slanting afternoon sunshine. To his left rose the southernmost peaks of the Misty Mountains, to his right the outflung northern spur of the White Mountains, while before him, sloping gently down for league upon league to the stony banks of the Isen, lay a carpet of soft, brown autumn grasses. The Gap of Rohan.

Pippin reined in beside him, breathing hard with excitement, and cried, "The Fords, at last! We can reach them before sundown, I am sure. Let us cross the fords, Merry, and camp tonight in Rohan."

"I should like to sleep on friendly ground, for a change. All right, Pip, let's push on."

They rode side by side, Pippin whistling as they went, and Merry smiled to himself. With the rain gone, at least for the moment, and no nightmares to torment his sleep, the world seemed a rich and lovely place, and his earlier terrors foolish. They would sleep tonight on the sweet grass of Rohan and soon, very soon, Merry would kneel in homage to Éomer King, his liege lord. Then on to Gondor, where Boromir would welcome them, Gil would scold them, Aragorn would smoke a pipe and laugh with them. He and Boromir would sit upon the walls of Minas Tirith and watch Andúin the Great flow down to the sea, talking of the adventures they had shared and those they had braved alone in the years since their parting, content simply to share a stone bench and a starlit sky. Content in each other's company.

These thoughts kept Merry occupied and smiling as they covered the final leagues to the ford. The sun rode low in the western sky, throwing long shadows across their path, when they came at last to the Fords of Isen and drew their ponies to a halt. They stood upon the crossroads, where the ancient highway to Orthanc met the Great North Road, and saw before them the familiar stony bed of the Isen, with its swift-running current and flat stepping-stones. In the middle of the riverbed rose a small islet, crowned with a smooth burial mound and a ring of half-rotted spears.

Merry swung down from the saddle and led the pony down to the very edge of the water. The current was strong and half the stepping-stones submerged or too wet and slippery for safety.

"The rains have swollen the river," he remarked, but Pippin was not listening. The younger hobbit sat astride his pony, head tilted at a sharp angle, as if straining to catch an elusive sound, and eyes searching the trees to the north. "What is it, Pip?"

"Hush! Can't you hear?"

"No…"

Pippin grinned saucily at him and chided, "You are grown too old and staid for adventuring, my dear Merry. Your ears must be stuffed with wool!"

"What _is_ it?" Merry demanded, testily.

"An Ent. _Singing_. And he's coming this way."

Then Merry heard it, the joyful _Hoom_ _Hom!_ of an Ent chanting a walking song, and his heart leapt within him. He turned to stare northward, straining his eyes for a glimpse of the creature, and broke out in a cry of delight when he saw a gnarled, ancient, wonderfully familiar figure come striding toward them along the verge of the old highway.

"Treebeard!" the Hobbits called together.

"Hoom, now." The Ent broke stride and regarded them for a moment, his eyes unreadable in the deepening shadows. "What have we here? Little Orcs?"

Merry and Pippin abandoned their ponies at the crossroads and ran, laughing, to meet him, crying, "Not Orcs, Treebeard, Hobbits! Merry and Pippin!" And just as the Ent caught them up in his enormous, many-fingered hands, Pippin added, "Good, old Treebeard!"

"Hobbits it is," Treebeard rumbled, eying first one of them, then the other. A gold light flickered like laughter in his green eyes. "What errand brings two young Hobbits so far from their holes, even to the shores of Isen and the lands of Éomer King?"

"We are on our way to Gondor," Pippin said, "to see Boromir. Merry had a terrible nightmare and decided that Boromir needed his help, so we set off from the Shire nearly two months ago to find him, only Merry's dreams have stopped so perhaps Boromir doesn't need him after all and we came all this way for nothing. But what are you doing way down here, at the Fords? I thought you Ents kept to the forest."

"Hoo! Root and twig, but I had forgotten how hasty you are. Let us tell one story at a time, my lad." He set the Hobbits gently on their feet and gestured toward the ford with one branch-like arm. "Ents guard the borders of these lands for the Lord of the Mark, as he guards our forests from axe and fire. I come here to the ford now and then, to see to the trees and watch for unwelcome travelers. I have an ent-house in yonder woods." He pointed northward, where trees grew thickly upon the slopes of Nan Curunír and overshadowed the road. "Now, my young Hobbits, what is this of dreams and Gondor's Steward?"

"It is too long a tale to tell, I'm afraid," Merry said, "for we must cross the river and find a place to camp before nightfall."

"There are fresh leaves for your beds and ent-draughts to wet your throats for the telling of long tales, if you will but come with me," Treebeard rumbled.

"Ah, Treebeard," Merry cried, "I would that we could! But I cannot delay, even if Pippin is right and this is all for nothing! I must find Boromir, I _must!_"

"Ha Hoom. Find him, eh? Then you are headed in the wrong direction, Merry, and making haste to no purpose. If you would find your lost Steward, you must seek him in the Golden Hall."

"Meduseld!" Merry's heart leapt within him, and he turned eagerly to find his pony, all else forgotten in the rush of joy he felt at this news. "Boromir is at Meduseld!"

"No, not so hasty." Treebeard caught him easily with one hand and set him down at Pippin's side again. "Come now. You will not find him there, yet."

"But…"

"Boromir and the King are bound for the Golden Hall, but they travel slowly, through the wilds of Dunland where no road guides them. They will come in good time, Merry, in good time. Hoom hm."

"I know why Aragorn is in Dunland," Pippin chimed in, "but Boromir did not travel west with him. What is he doing so far from Minas Tirith?"

"Hmmm." The Ent regarded them both thoughtfully, his eyes flickering, and murmured in his deepest, most rumbling voice, "It would seem that I have a long tale to tell, as well. Ha hm. A very long tale, indeed."

"You are certain that Boromir is not yet at Meduseld?" Merry pleaded.

"I am. Hrum hoom, yes, I am certain."

"Then we might come with you to your ent-house, just for tonight, and still reach Edoras in time to meet him?"

"That would be best." Treebeard put a hand on each of their heads, turning them gently this way and that to study them, then he mused, "Young Hobbits are in need of an ent-draught to help them grow strong and tall again."

Merry laughed at that, his heart suddenly light. "If we grow any taller, we shall be mistaken for Men! But I should dearly like to share an ent-draught with you, and hear your very long tale."

"Hoom! And so you shall. Come, my friends."

The Hobbits ran to where their ponies waited and, grabbing up the reins, led them off the road into the long grass at its verge, where they set off northward in the wake of Treebeard's enormous strides.

* * *

Prince Imrahil sat at the great table that dominated the King's study, a pile of dispatches at his elbow and a map spread before him upon the table. A pot of ink and well-trimmed quill stood ready to hand, together with several clean sheets of parchment, an unlit candle, and the remains of his midday meal. Afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows and across the table, making the colored markings on the map glow as if the ink were still wet and reminding the warrior prince of the bright armies they represented. His armies. His soldiers. His people marching to war without their general at their head.

War was upon them at last. The Haradrim had not yet crossed Anduin, driven back from its banks time and again by the fierce valor of Ciryon's troops, but they would break through the last defenses soon. Mayhap even now, as Imrahil sat idle in this tower room, the beasts of Harad were swarming over the sweet fields of Gondor, slaughtering as they went. Mayhap the beaches of Belfalas and Dol Amroth were already wet with the blood of valiant men.

Imrahil did not sigh or rake his fingers through his hair at this thought, for he was too old and battle-hardened a campaigner to give his feelings such outward show. But his lean face hardened and his eyes smoldered as he gazed down at the map in growing frustration.

The markings upon it were days old, at best, and the intelligence from South Gondor uncertain. He must send orders to the captains waiting in Lebennin, but he dared not, until he had fresh reports from Beregond's spies upon the Harad Road. They would tell him whether the garrisons manned by Ciryon's troops were holding, whether the Haradrim marched east or west, away from battle or toward it, and how many spears the armies drawn up on Anduin's banks would face when the garrisons broke at last. He must wait. Always wait.

Ah, what he would not give to have Elessar back again! The King must come. And Faramir. He had no hope left in him for Boromir, though it pained him beyond words to admit it, but the King and Faramir would not fail him. They would not leave Gondor leaderless at such a time.

A slight stirring at the window brought the Prince's eyes up for a moment, distracting him from his brown study. A small, black-clad figure sat in the window embrasure, her legs drawn up and her feet wedged against the stone casement in a most unladylike manner that made the Prince smile to see it. He had grown insensibly used to Gil's presence of late and come to rely on her, in spite of her oddities of manner and dress, for he could trust her as he could no one else. In this time of subtle plots and treachery, when even his oldest friends were suspect, this strange, blunt, graceless drudge, in her preposterous boy's clothing, was his staunchest ally.

She leaned farther out of the window, straining to see something on the plains below, and Imrahil had to bite his tongue to stifle his remonstrance. He still thought of her as a female, if not precisely a lady, and disapproved of her boyish tricks even as he smiled at them.

"A messenger comes, my lord Prince," Gil said, without taking her eyes from the scene below.

_Beregond!_ he thought and half rose from his chair. _The Captain of Ithilien sends word at last!_ But Gil's next words throttled that hope, even as they brought him more quickly to his feet.

"He wears a silver helm, crested with horsehair, and his cloak is green."

Imrahil crossed to the window and peered over her shoulder. His eyes found the glint of silver and green moving swiftly along the road from the north, now nearly at the gates, and his heart leapt. He knew from whence this green-cloaked rider came.

"Éomer King sends us a messenger in haste." He looked down at the squire perched in the window before him, and their eyes met in swift understanding. "Are your spies in place, Gil?"

She nodded abruptly and turned back to watch the Rider approach the city gates.

"Then we will let yon herald deliver his letters to Lord Taleris. If they contain news of the King's coming, they will throw him and his plots into confusion, and mayhap he will betray himself at last."

"And if he does not?"

"Then Elessar will deal with him."

"The King will come, think you?"

"What other news could such a messenger bring?"

The tightening of Gil's face betrayed her thoughts, and Imrahil felt a sudden flare of pity for her. He knew that she, alone of all the household, yet hoped for Boromir's return. That hope was more cruel than the blackest despair, but he could not bring himself to crush it.

Gil, her eyes now blank and her face closed, uncoiled from her seat at the window and moved toward the door on silent feet. Imrahil did not stay her, but watched as she opened the door and gestured for the page standing outside to enter. The boy obeyed, stepping through the door and bowing courteously to the Prince.

"My Lord?" he piped in his child's voice, but even as he spoke to Imrahil, his eyes slid to Gil.

She beckoned him farther in and shut the door behind him. "Who is on duty at the lower gate, today, Hal?" she asked, as she took a small, silver coin from the pouch at her belt.

"The Baker's boy. I saw him playing jackstraws in the corner at the wall's turning, when I came up from the stables."

Gil handed him the coin, on which Imrahil could see the Horn and Stars of Anórien stamped, and said, "Show him this token, and tell him that once the Rider in green passes into the citadel, he must not take his eyes from the gate."

The boy nodded and slipped the coin into surcote, his eyes bright with excitement. "He will not. We know well our duty, Gil, and will not fail!"

"Go then, and quickly. Do not let Lord Taleris see you."

With another nod and another bow to Imrahil, the boy turned on his heel and slipped out the door. Gil bolted it behind him, placing herself with her back to the carved wood like a sentry. Imrahil cast a final glance out the window to see the herald now climbing the steep street to the third gate, then he returned to his seat behind the table and prepared to wait.

He had ample time to contemplate the risk they were taking, in letting Éomer's letter pass first into Taleris' hands. Once before, when news had come from Rohan that struck at Gondor's very heart, Taleris had used it to strike another, even deadlier blow against his own land and people. Imrahil could not prove it, but he knew with sick certainty that Taleris had sent word of Boromir's fall to his allies among the Haradrim, spurring them to war. The first attack upon Ciryon's garrisons had come too swiftly upon the news, while Minas Tirith herself had only begun to hear and believe it, to be a matter of chance. Taleris knew that Boromir's death would cut the heart from the armies of Gondor, knew that the King and Faramir lingered in the wilds of Dunland on a fruitless search. He had picked his time well, the cunning old soldier.

Had they only thought to rally Gil's army of small spies in time to catch that first crucial letter, Taleris might even now be locked in the deepest hole beneath Minas Tirith, awaiting the King's vengeance. But it was not until after the war had started and the damage was done that they had found the means to put a watch on Taleris. Often, in the sleepless hours of the night, when he lay thinking of what Elessar would say to him about his bungled stewardship, Imrahil cursed himself for not taking that step sooner. Gondor's rule and Gondor's weal fell upon him, in the King's absence, not upon the slight shoulders of a drudge in boy's clothing. But it was Gil who had found the weapon to avenge Boromir's fall. Gil who had rallied the secret army to catch a traitor at his own game.

They were pages, servants, street urchins and beggars' brats. Unnoticed in their livery or their peasant rags, they could follow Taleris into any chamber, corner or closet within the Tower, trail him through the streets of Minas Tirith without drawing even the most indifferent glance, shadow him from the moment of his waking until he locked his chamber door behind him at night. They bowed to Prince Imrahil, but they looked to Gil – Steward's squire and erstwhile drudge – for their orders.

Would they catch the traitor at last? Imrahil wondered. Would he have that small victory to hand the King, when he returned with no Boromir at his side?

Steps sounded on the flagstones of the passage. Gil stiffened. Imrahil lifted his head, and his face was as stern as ever, with no hint of his doubts visible. They both waited in tense silence, until a heavy fist pounded on the door and Taleris' voice called out, harshly, "I would speak with you, my lord Prince!"

Imrahil lifted his hand in a signal to Gil. She turned promptly to unbolt the door and hold it open for Taleris. He strode past her without a glance, all his attention fixed upon Imrahil, and approached the table, holding a leather message tube in one hand.

"A letter from Éomer King, my prince." Taleris held out the tube to him.

Imrahil accepted it with a nod of thanks and lifted the top, noting as did so that the seals upon it were broken, but the parchment inside appeared untouched. Settling back in his chair with an assumption of ease, he broke the wax seal on the scroll and spread it between his hands. His eyes scanned rapidly over the formal greetings, hunting for some mention of the King, but of a sudden, he saw a familiar and beloved name writ upon the page, and he froze.

"Sweet Valar…"

"My lord?" Gil moved took a cautious step toward him, her dark brows drawn together in a frown of concern. "Are you ill, my lord?"

He lurched to his feet and fixed burning eyes upon Gil's face. His thoughts still limped in numb disbelief, refusing to accept the truth of what he read, but his lips did not wait for his mind's leave to speak. They blurted out the impossible news before he could stop them. "Boromir is found! _Alive!_"

Taleris gaped at him for a stunned moment, then blurted out, "'Tis not possible! This is some jest, some device of the enemy…"

A swift, killing glance from Imrahil cut off his words and brought his teeth together with a snap.

"'Tis writ in Éomer King's own hand and bears his seal," Imrahil said, with an effort at control, conscious even now that he must continue to play the smiling dupe and show no hint of anger toward the treacherous Taleris. "We cannot doubt his word. Boromir is alive."

"But the Orcs!" Taleris began, only to be silenced once again, when Imrahil leapt suddenly from his place behind the table, circling it at a run.

"Gil!" the Prince cried, catching her arm. "What ails you, girl?"

She stared at him with glassy eyes, the pupils widened until no grey showed in them, and her bloodless lips moved but could form no words. He felt her arm trembling in his grasp and feared, for a moment, that she was on the verge of some violent fit. But as she drew a long, sobbing breath, her eyes came into focus and recognition flickered in them. The vibrating tension in her arm eased. She licked her lips, drew another, more even breath, and whispered so low that only Imrahil could hear, "He lives? In truth?"

"Aye, Gil."

Imrahil let go her arm and turned to find the letter he had dropped upon the table, but he saw that Taleris now held it. The old lord read intently, brows knit, unaware that Prince and squire both watched him. When at last he looked up to meet their gazes, he had schooled his features into their familiar harsh, disdainful lines, and his eyes were hooded.

"He says naught of when the King returns, but it must be soon. Elessar and Prince Faramir are bound for Meduseld, where the King will learn of the war's progress and know that he is needed here." Letting the parchment curl in upon itself, he handed it to Imrahil and executed a precise bow. "With your leave, my lord, I will prepare dispatches for Ciryon and the Southern captains. They must hear at once of our Steward's rescue and our King's coming."

Imrahil nodded gravely. "See it done."

Taleris turned on his heel and strode out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind him. Imrahil waited for a handful of seconds, listening to the sound of Taleris' retreating footsteps, then he let his breath out on a long sigh and fixed kind, worried eyes on Gil's face.

"Would you read the words for yourself?" he asked, more gently than was his wont, and offered her the roll of parchment. "Mayhap it will help you to believe."

She shook her head, mutely.

"Let me pour you some wine. Ye gods, girl, you look like death!"

Gil lifted a hand to her forehead and squeezed her eyes shut. She did not open them until Imrahil pressed a goblet of wine into her hand and bade her drink. Then she obeyed, meekly, while her eyes wandered to the letter that now lay upon the table.

Imrahil watched her in frowning silence, waiting for her to collect herself and resume her usual stolid manner. He found a white and trembling Gil disconcerting, well though he understood her reaction, and he could think of no way to help her but to wait.

Finally, when she had drunk half the wine, she moved over to the table with her deliberate stride and set the goblet down. Then she turned a pale but composed face to Imrahil and asked, "Do you send riders to Edoras, my lord?"

"Aye."

She hesitated for a moment, her lips tightening, then said stiffly, "I beg your leave to go with them."

Imrahil's brows rose in surprise. "You? To Rohan? But you do not ride, Gil, and I send no carts or litters."

"I will learn to ride."

"By sunrise? Nay, girl, there is no time for such folly…"

"Then tie me to the saddle like a bedroll," she hissed, "for I must be in Rohan when he comes!"

"Gil." He clasped her arm, thinking to lend her comfort, and her head came up sharply, her gaze meeting his. She did not weep, but the pain and the eagerness in her eyes touched him more deeply than any tears.

"He is my liege lord, and so long as he lives, I am sworn to serve him. I beg you, my lord, let me go."

"Aye." He let go her arm, let her step away and free him from the terrible spell of her gaze, then he said, softly, "The Steward's squire must be at the Steward's side."

To Imrahil's surprise, Gil dropped swiftly to one knee before him and clasped his hand in both of her own. Pressing her lips to his fingers, she cried, "Thank you, my Prince!"

He goggled at her for a moment, at a loss for words, then spluttered, "Enough, girl. You must make haste, if you hope to depart at sunrise. You will need proper riding leathers, a traveling cloak and gear, boots, provisions…"

"I know it! I will be ready!" Leaping to her feet, she strode to the door.

"Ah, Gil! What of your pack of spying urchins? Will they know to come to me with word of Taleris' movements?"

But Gil already had the door open and was stepping through it, with no time or attention to spare for his concerns. "Trust them! They know what to do!" Then she was gone, flying down the corridor toward the main stairs, calling back a final, "Thank you, my lord!"

_**To be continued…**_


	13. The King's Duty

**Author's Note:** If anyone is still following this story, I hope you enjoy the new chapter. Merry Christmas to Annys and Bookwyrm (I hope you don't mind sharing your present with a few other readers) and Happy New Year to everyone! -- Chevy

* * *

**Chapter 13: _The King's Duty_**

A polite knock sounded on the door.

Imrahil glanced up from the dispatch before him to see the door open and the page, Hal, very correct in his silver and black livery, step into the room. He bowed with perfect courtesy to the Prince and said, "There is someone below stairs who would speak with you, my lord."

Imrahil frowned at the boy. "Below stairs?"

"Aye, my lord." At Imrahil's startled, faintly reproving look, the page crossed to the table and handed him a small, silver coin. "The Chamberlain thought it best to keep him out of sight."

Imrahil stared down at the talisman, at the Horn and Stars of Anórien stamped into the soft metal, and felt a surge of excitement go through him. For two endless days, since the arrival of Éomer King's messenger, Taleris had stayed safely within the citadel walls, contacting no one and sending no letter that Imrahil did not sign and seal with his own hands. The Prince all but despaired of exposing his treacheries, and with each day that passed he grew more somber and weary, weighed down by his own failure. But the small coin lying on his palm sent the blood singing through his warrior's veins and drove away all weariness.

Pushing back his chair with a thump, he sprang to his feet and came quickly around the table. "I will see him at once."

Striding through the door, Imrahil turned toward the main stairway that led down to the antechamber and Great Hall, and from thence down to the servants' hall. He had passed two floors on his way down when it occurred to him that Taleris' office lay hard by those stairs, where he could see all who moved up or down them. Imrahil knew a brief, ignoble wish that he had taken the back stairs to the kitchens to avoid Taleris' notice, but he banished that thought as quickly as it came. It did not suit the Prince's dignity to creep about the citadel in such a furtive manner, hiding his movements from his own deputy.

He continued down the long, circular stair with the page trotting at his heels, his head up and no sign of urgency about him. As he passed the second level and Taleris' office, he kept his gaze before him, to all outward appearances unconcerned with who was or was not watching him stride past. A last wide, straight flight of steps brought them to the antechamber. The main doors were open to the sunlight, which spilled in bright beauty across the inlaid marble floor.

Ignoring the beckoning sunshine and the smell of Autumn on the soft air, Imrahil turned for the back of the hall, where a heavy tapestry hid the door to the lower levels. His page swept aside the rich tapestry, bowing him through the door. Imrahil stepped past him and took the narrow flight of stairs at a run. After long, frustrating, fruitless months of waiting, he was about to justify Boromir's faith in him and unmask a traitor. This certainty lent his steps a swiftness that belied his age.

At the bottom of the stair, a hallway ran straight back into the bowels of Mindolluin and the heart of the White Tower, with countless doorways and passages opening off of it. Immediately to Imrahil's left was a door that had no carvings upon it and a latch of simple, unadorned silver. A plain and serviceable door, but one familiar to every nobleman's son who had ever served as page or squire to the rulers of Gondor, for it was from this room that the King's Chamberlain ruled the citadel.

Hal knocked firmly on the door. After a brief pause, it opened under the Chamberlain's own hand. He gazed down at the page and the Prince from his lofty height, then he bowed deeply and swung the door wide. "My Lord Prince."

Imrahil stepped into the room and glanced around it curiously. He saw a spacious room, the walls covered with hanging racks of documents and the floor nearly filled by two massive tables. At one sat the Chamberlain's secretary, with rolls of parchment, pots of ink, quills and seals strewn about him. At the other sat a small, ragged boy, clutching a piece of bread liberally smeared with honey. Both the man and the boy looked up at Imrahil's entrance, and the man got hastily to his feet.

"I would speak to this boy alone," Imrahil said, nodding politely in acknowledgement of the secretary's bow, but according him no more than a glance.

"Of course, my lord," the Chamberlain murmured. With a twitch of his head, he summoned his underling and swept him out of the room, closing the door quietly behind them.

Imrahil found himself confronting a pair of suspicious, faintly hostile eyes gleaming at him from beneath a shock of hair so grimy that he could not determine its color. The boy got slowly to his feet and, after a moment's careful thought, sketched an awkward bow. Then he took an enormous bite of sticky bread and chewed it doggedly, his gaze never leaving Imrahil's face.

"What is your name?" Imrahil asked calmly, trying to mask his eagerness.

The boy looked at Hal, as if asking his permission to speak or hoping for encouragement. In response to this unspoken plea, Hal said, "He is called Durstan, my lord."

Imrahil opened his hand to show the silver coin lying on his palm. "Gave you this token to my page, Master Durstan?"

This time, the boy answered for himself. "Aye."

"Is that how you address the Prince of Dol Amroth, you ruffian?" Hal demanded, sharply.

The hostility in Durstan's eyes deepened, but he muttered, obediently, "M'lord."

"Never mind the courtesies. Tell me why you sent this to me," Imrahil said.

"Gil's orders. M'lord."

A flicker of impatience showed in Imrahil's eyes, but he kept his voice even and his manner pleasant. "What message do you bring me on Gil's orders?"

"'Tis the greybeard. Gil said I was to watch him, when he came out t'gate, and I was to tell none but her or the Prince what I saw. So I come to tell you," a sullen pause, then, "m'lord."

"Aye, go on."

"He come out t'gate."

Imrahil controlled his rising impatience with an effort. "This much I could have guessed for myself. What did he do when he came out?"

"Went down to Fifth Circle, where the fat merchants live in their big, big houses. Took a key from his purse, unlocked a gate, and in he went."

"Into a house? Whose house?"

Durstan shot him a sideways glance, clearly relishing the effect of his tale on his audience. Then he shrugged with elaborate unconcern and said, "In he went, and when he come out again, he wore a purple robe with fur on the collar and a gold chain about his shoulders and a velvet cap on his head. Very fine he looked. Like one of those fat merchants. Got me to wondering if maybe his purse was fat, too, but I thought on what Gil would say if I pinched aught from the greybeard and kept my fingers out of it."

"Very wise of you," Imrahil murmured, while behind his impassive face he thought, _A_ _thief. A cutpurse, by the sound of it. Gil certainly does choose her allies strangely_.

"Aye, well, but I lost a deal in the bargain, I reckon." Another sly glance elicited no response from Imrahil, so he went on in his earlier, sullen tone, "I followed him down to Fourth Circle, to a tavern. Sat at a back table for nigh on an hour, he did, before t'other came."

"What other?" Imrahil's voice sharpened with excitement.

"Couldn't see his face proper for the cowl he wore, but he was dark. Narrow, squinty eyes, black as hate. Dressed like a herdsman, but he walked like a sailor."

"Did you hear what they said to one another?"

Durstan shook his head. He grinned, showing rotten teeth for the first time, and rubbed his fingers together suggestively. "The likes of me be not welcome in a respectable tavern. But I watched through the window, and I saw the greybeard hand a letter to t'other. Angry, he was, or afraid. He put his face right up to t'other's and spat as he talked. The black-eyed man did not like that. He got up from his seat and went out, scowling fit to fry the greybeard in his boots."

Imrahil turned abruptly away from the boy and began to pace the small patch of empty floor. How long had all this taken, he wondered. How long had the little thief sat in this room, eating honeyed bread, while Taleris' letter vanished into the teeming lower streets of Minas Tirith? And where then? To the Harlond, where countless ships rode at anchor, awaiting orders to sail south for the Mouths of Anduin and war?

"Hal!"

The page sprang eagerly to his side.

"Send for the commander of the guard at once. And summon the Chamberlain back. We must close the port, hold all ships at the Harlond until this sailor in herdsman's garb is found. I must have that letter."

"He is at the Harlond, I reckon, for I saw him on his way from the lower gate," the grinning thief drawled, "but you will find no letter about him."

"Eh?" Imrahil halted his pacing abruptly and wheeled on the boy. "What is that you say?"

Once again the center of attention, Durstan cast a triumphant glance at both Prince and page. One hand slipped into the front of his filthy tunic and pulled out a scroll of parchment. Imrahil snatched it from him and broke the seal, his eyes scanning the closely penned lines with feverish haste.

Durstan showed his teeth in another smile and went on, more expansively with every passing moment, "I thought as how Gil had told me to watch the greybeard, but it seemed to me that the greybeard had only one place to go, back to the tower, whilst the stranger had that letter in his pocket and all the city to wander in. So I pondered what Gil would have me do, and all the while I was pondering, my feet was taking me right after the stranger. And right about the time I saw he was making for t'gates, it came to me. The letter would tell it all. The letter was what the Prince wanted. And where was the letter? Why, in a pocket, put there by Dame Fortune for the likes of me to find."

He grinned more widely still. "So that is what I did."

Imrahil spoke without lifting his eyes from the paper in his hands. "You did well, Master Durstan, very well indeed. Go swiftly, Hal, and fetch me the Guard Captain."

Hal crossed to the door and pulled it open to reveal the Chamberlain standing just outside. "My Lord Prince has need of you, Sir," the page said, and stepped aside to let the Chamberlain enter.

"Aye." Imrahil glanced up from the letter, his eyes burning with a fierce, martial light. "Signal the Harlond that the port is closed by order of the King. No ship is to leave the docks, and any craft that sailed within the hour is to be turned back, by force if needed. I will prepare written orders, but do not wait for these. Use the signal flags on the outer tower. The Guard will close the lower gate. No man may leave the citadel without a signed warrant bearing my personal seal. Is this understood?"

The Chamberlain bowed. "It is, my lord."

"See to it at once."

The Chamberlain bowed again and departed, leaving Imrahil alone with the grimy urchin who had handed him his victory so neatly. Smiling down at the boy, he said, pleasantly, "You cannot leave the citadel at present, but I will see you fed, bathed and suitably clothed in the servants' hall, ere you go."

Durstan gaped at him in open horror, then leapt to his feet and scurried for the door, his shoulders hunched as though anticipating a blow.

"Stay, boy, what ails you?" Imrahil demanded.

Durstan huddled against the door, afraid to leave against the Prince's express command but clearly frantic to be away. "I did as I was bid," he whimpered. "I brought the letter."

"Aye, and I am in your debt."

"Then let me go from this place. Let me go back to the lower city as I am, and do not punish me for doing as I was bid."

"I do not mean to punish you," Imrahil replied, his brows lifted in astonishment. "I mean only to give you food, clothing and money enough to reward your efforts."

Outrage stiffened the boy's spine, and he left off cowering to confront the Prince with injured dignity. "What chance has a beggar and cutpurse if his clothes be new and his face scrubbed clean? Answer me that, m'lord!"

Imrahil smiled in understanding. "I am chastened, Master Cutpurse. Ask what reward you will, and for the service your light fingers have done me, it is yours."

The little thief regarded him with deep suspicion for a moment, then said, grudgingly, "A hot meal and a tankard of good ale in my belly would not be amiss."

"Is that all the payment you desire?"

"Enough coin in my pocket to jingle when I walk."

"But not so much that it tempt your fellows to rob you of it?"

Durstan grunted his approval. His eyes fixed on Imrahil's face, regarding him steadily for a long moment, and then he added in a voice empty of hostility or wheedling, "And tell Gil 'twas I brought you the Greybeard's letter."

"Agreed."

A loud knock on the door sent Durstan scuttling back to his seat at the desk, once more hunched against an expected blow. Imrahil strode to the door and flung it open, to find Hal and the Captain of the Guard standing outside. The guardsman saluted him and said, "The gate is shut, the citadel closed, as you commanded, my lord."

Imrahil nodded his thanks and turned to smile reassuringly at Durstan. "Stay here, Master Cutpurse. I will send someone with your meal and tankard, but you will not leave this room except in my company or my page's."

"Aye, m'lord," the boy mumbled.

Imrahil stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut. Turning to the captain, he said in a voice too low to penetrate the heavy door, "Form an escort of six men, fully armed. Have them await me in the antechamber, at the bottom of the stairway."

The man saluted and left, his heavy boots and sword clattering up the stone stairs as he went.

A handful of minutes later, Imrahil paced up the wide, stone stairway from the antechamber, his page shadowing him and an escort of the Tower Guard at his back. He carried himself like the warrior Prince he was, full of power and certainty, his face stern, his bearing proud. One hand rested lightly upon the pommel of his sword, while the other clasped the slim roll of parchment that held Imrahil's triumph and Taleris' death enclosed within it.

The door to Taleris' chamber stood wide. The old lord sat behind his massive desk, a pile of maps and dispatches before him, but at the sound of many booted feet upon the flagstones, he looked up in scowling alarm. Imrahil stepped through the door without pause, Hal and the Guard captain on his heels. The escort, resplendent in their flashing silver mail and sable tunics, halted just outside the room and drew their swords.

Taleris lurched to his feet at Imrahil's approach, his face empty of all emotion but unnaturally pale, as his eyes moved to the glittering array of weapons in the hands of the guard. Dragging his gaze from the soldiers, he turned it on Imrahil and, pulling the shreds of his dignity about him, nodded a courteous greeting to the Prince.

Imrahil stared coldly at him, as if at a stranger and said, "Lord Taleris, I arrest you in the name of King Elessar Telcontar."

"Arrest me!" Taleris growled, his voice harsh with strain and his eyes darting nervously to the waiting guards. "What folly is this, my lord Prince?"

"'Tis treason, and you will die for it." Imrahil lifted the parchment, turning it to show Taleris his own seal upon it. "You are condemned by your own hand."

Taleris' eyes nearly started from their sockets, and what color remained in his cheeks fled. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then felt the searing touch of Imrahil's eyes upon him, like the stroke of a blade, and swallowed his words. Lifting his head at a proud angle, he stepped from behind his desk and approached the Prince.

When they stood face to face, only a sword's length apart, Taleris drew himself up stiffly and asked, "Must I surrender my weapons, my lord? Or is my oath that I will neither fight nor flee sufficient?"

"Surrender your weapons." Outrage and disbelief swept over Taleris' face, and again he made as if to speak, but Imrahil forestalled him. Stretching out his free hand, palm open, he said, "Your dagger, my lord."

Taleris fumbled with the ornamental dagger that hung at his belt, struggling to loosen the scabbard from its bindings, blustering as he did so, "You dishonor me, Imrahil, and demean yourself by this. I am a man of my word, a nobleman of Gondor, who has served Gondor's Steward all his life."

"Served him with an arrow in the back?" Imrahil cut in, his voice soft and chill.

Taleris slapped the sheathed dagger across Imrahil's palm, his face reddening with anger. "I place myself in your hands. I demand that you treat me as my birth warrants, with the honor due the King's Deputy and your old friend."

The Prince closed his hand around the dagger until his knuckles showed white, and said through gritted teeth, "You forfeited honor, friendship and the privilege of birth when you betrayed your King. Now you will await the King's justice in a traitor's cell." Thrusting out the dagger to the captain who waited, silently, at his shoulder, he snapped, "Escort Lord Taleris to the dungeons."

Taleris struggled visibly to master himself, dignity warring with rage, until dignity won the day and he straightened his shoulders proudly once more. He fixed his gaze on the open door and the soldiers standing at the ready outside it, vouchsafing Imrahil no glance, no sign of fear or surrender. Imrahil stepped aside, and Taleris strode out to meet his guards, the captain following behind him.

Imrahil waited until the company had moved down the stairs, out of sight and hearing, then he drew Hal nearer with a gesture.

"Send word to the Guard, the gates are to be opened and the doors unbarred. Have word brought to me at once when the spy is found."

"Where will you be, my lord?"

"The King's study."

Hal bowed and moved toward the door.

"Hal." The boy halted, turned to face the Prince. "See to Durstan. See to his comfort, but make it clear to him that he cannot leave the citadel. I rely on you to keep him here, even if it means setting a guard upon him."

"Aye, my lord."

A moment later the boy was gone, and Imrahil was alone.

The Prince moved around the desk and sank into the chair that stood behind it. The desk was piled deep with sheets of parchment, rolled and folded dispatches, message tubes and maps. Letters, lists, orders, reports, troop movements. At once the litter and the lifeblood of war. Which scrap of parchment, Imrahil wondered, might reveal the treasons that had sparked this war? He would sift every page, every word. He must, for he must have the full record of Taleris' crimes laid bare before Elessar returned.

Weariness settled upon him, dank and heavy. He rested his elbows on the desktop and buried his face in his hands, indulging in a moment of grief while there was none by to see it.

How many years had he called Taleris friend? How many years had they labored together to do Lord Denethor's bidding? Through all the long years of gathering darkness, of decay and despair, Imrahil and Taleris had stood with the ruling Steward against the Shadow. They had not dared to hope for victory, and yet they had fought on, scorning surrender. And now, when the Shadow was lifted, when hope shone untarnished in the hearts of Men, when Gondor stood proud and strong once more, his friend was lost to him. Destroyed by a shadow within him that even Sauron's fall could not banish.

Lifting his head, Imrahil opened the letter he still carried and spread it between his hands. It was short and blunt, wasting no words on courtesy and making no effort at concealment. Mayhap Taleris had relied on his friendship with the Prince to save him, should it fall into the wrong hands, or mayhap he had counted the time for caution passed. Whatever his reason, he had sealed his fate with his own words.

_Boromir is found alive, and the King returns to Gondor. You cannot defeat Elessar in open battle. Push across the River now and take the strongholds of Ciryon in Lebennin before the King marches south, or withdraw. _

_Do not look for more from me. I am done, and it is in your hands alone._

The letter was signed only with an Eastern rune that Imrahil did not recognize. He read through it again, feeling the weight of Taleris' betrayal settle ever more heavily upon his shoulders. Then he rolled the paper, tucked it into his belt, and bowed his head.

It was enough. Taleris would die, and Imrahil would prove himself at last to his kinsman and Steward. Boromir would doubt him no more. But at what cost?

* * *

Gil looked up at the massive wooden gates from the depths of an exhaustion so profound that it did not allow for wonderment. She sat astride her mount before the gates of Edoras. She, Gil, the foundling brat who had never thought in all her life to set foot outside the Rammas Echor or lose sight of Minas Tirith's walls. Here she waited, a warhorse fit for a lord beneath her, league upon league of Rohan's vast fields behind her, the Golden Hall of Éomer King rising before her eyes atop its terraced hill, and she could think of naught save the ache in her legs and back, the dragging weariness that filled her, and the chill of wet clothing against her skin.

A guard in a silver helm and tunic of grass green barred their way, demanding to know their business. Gil did not hear what was spoken between the guard and her escort. She gazed numbly at the wooden wall towering above her until the horse immediately in front of her started moving again. Then she kicked her own horse into motion, and clung doggedly to the saddlebow as the great beast lurched forward, past the guard and into the shadow of the gate.

Inside the walls, she found herself on a steeply-climbing, stone-flagged street with wooden houses crowding close on either hand. A stream flowed down the hill beside the road, filling the air with its music, and a mob of curious children scampered after the mounted strangers. The men-at-arms who rode with Gil called greetings to the children and to their parents who came running to investigate the noise. Soon they had a sizeable escort following them up the hill.

The paved road ended at the bottom of a green terrace. Here a spring gushed from the hillside and poured into a stone pool, from which the stream spilled and flowed down toward the fields below. A long, straight flight of stone steps climbed the terrace to the hill's flat crest. Gil craned her neck to find the top stair, and saw two massive seats cut from the stone of the hill framed against the grey, rain-swept sky. Men sat upon them, tall and straight, with helms upon their heads and swords in their hands that shone like silver flame.

The doorwardens of Meduseld. On that hilltop, up that long stair and past those proud wardens, stood the Golden Hall, and Gil knew that somehow she must find the strength to climb all those steps to reach it. Her spirits quailed at the thought.

Imrahil's herald, the leader of their company, dismounted first and greeted the crowd of townspeople gathered about them. Soon the men-at-arms were swinging down from their mounts, as well, and the people of Rohan moved among the horses, holding their bridles while they spoke to the new arrivals from Gondor. Gil watched them with dull eyes and clenched teeth, waiting for one of her companions to remember that she needed their aid in dismounting. They had tied her feet into the stirrups to keep her on horseback, and on horseback she must stay until one of them freed her.

A tall, fair-haired, beardless man in worn riding leathers stepped up to take her horse's bridle. He smiled at Gil and said, "Come down now, lad, for your own legs must carry you the rest of the way to the King's door."

She unclenched her teeth, which instantly began to chatter from the cold, and muttered, "I cannot."

The man's eyes moved to her feet and the bindings that held them in the stirrups. His fair brows rose. "Came you all the way from Gondor tied to your own saddle?"

"Aye, or we should have lost her by the first milestone," the herald said, with a chuckle. He waved one of their escort over to free Gil and help her to dismount, while the man at her horse's head stared at her in growing wonder.

"'Tis no lad, then, nor no rider from the look of it." He watched a soldier in the black and silver livery of Gondor lift Gil bodily from the saddle and remarked, "The smallest babe in Rohan would scorn to travel in such a manner."

Gil stifled a cry of pain as her feet touched the ground and said through gritted teeth, "Then give yon beast to your smallest babe with my compliments, Man of Rohan. I want no more of it."

The man laughed, the shadow of contempt clearing from his face. "Who shall I tell him gives such a princely gift?"

"A prince's squire." Turning away before he could respond, Gil limped painfully toward the stairway.

Calenhil, the soldier who had helped from her saddle, walked at her side, taking most of her weight on his arm. He watched in silence as she attacked the stairway with all the grim determination of a soldier attacking a band of Orcs, and let her climb the first handful of steps without comment. Then impatience got the better of him and he exclaimed, "Confound it, Gil, I want my dinner sometime ere nightfall!"

Not waiting for her to answer, he grabbed her arm and swung her bodily over his broad shoulder. Gil uttered a grunt of protest, but she could not fight him without shredding what little dignity she had left. She could only hang over his shoulder, her arms dangling grotesquely and her hip pressing against his ear, while he carried her up the stairs at a trot.

Calenhil reached the head of the stair and stepped between the doorwardens' seats onto a wide, windswept stone platform. As he set Gil on her feet, he backed cautiously away from her and said, "There, now. You are delivered to Meduseld, as Prince Imrahil charged, and our duty is done. Will you take my head off for my pains? Or will you accept my arm as far as the King's hall?"

Two spots of furious color burning in her cheeks, Gil gave her leather tunic a tug to straighten it and put a hand up to check that her long hair had not come loose from its coronet of braids. Only then did she turn to look at proud Meduseld, rising from the hilltop to blot out the pale sky.

Not so lofty as the Tower of Echthelion, nor so gracious, was this hall of Rohan's kings, and yet it owned a dignity that sat well upon this wild seat, overlooking a rough and beautiful land. Its golden roof was dimmed to sullen bronze in the chill light of a rainy afternoon, and the standard that hung above the wide doors was too wet and heavy to spread itself on the wind. But from the open doors spilled warm torchlight, and the salutes of the wardens who ushered them into the hall were welcoming.

Schooling her face into wooden impassivity, Gil slipped her hand through Calenhil's arm and paced with him up a last handful of shallow steps to the open doors. She saw before her a long, wide hall, lined with pillars and lit with many torches in iron brackets. Rich colors she saw, carvings upon the pillars picked out in gold and green, tapestries, banners, trophies of many battles, all glowing in the torchlight. The trappings of a warrior king, she guessed, as she walked the length of the hall between the carven pillars and tried not to gape foolishly at her surroundings.

At the far end of the hall, Gil saw a throne set upon a dais. It was draped with furs and rich cloth, with a brazier standing close beside it to drive out the chill, but no one sat on this high seat. Instead, she saw, a table had been set on the floor below the dais, and three figures gathered closely around it, one of them holding a candle.

The one with the light was a man, tall and fair, whom Gil instantly recognized as Éomer King. The others were too small for men and too sturdily built for children, with curly brown hair upon their heads and even more upon their bare feet. They chattered and laughed, their high voices carrying sharply through the lofty hall, and spoke to Éomer with a lack of restraint or respect that would have shocked Gil, had she not known them for who and what they were. Halflings. _Periannath_. And if her eyes did not deceive her, the taller one with the lilting smile was none other than Meriadoc Brandybuck.

Gil had lived too many years at the King's court to forget herself or her place, so she did not cry out to the halfling, but her eyes followed the creature's every movement while her mind urged him to look up, to see her, to know her.

"They cannot be traveling as slowly as all that," the other halfling insisted. It was Peregrin, Merry's cousin and constant companion, she now saw. Both had aged a trifle, grown more brown and fit and assured, but Gil would have known them anywhere. "I say they must have reached the road by now."

"Treebeard has not seen them at the ford," Merry said. His finger traced a line across the skin that lay on the table, clearly marking some path on a map that Gil could not see. "There are no roads through Dunland, but there is a village here, on the great road, where they might have taken shelter from the rain. Have your Riders gone this far to the west, my lord?" He looked to Éomer as he spoke, but the King had stepped away from the table to greet the approaching company.

"Welcome, Men of Gondor, to Rohan."

The herald came to a halt before the dais where Éomer stood and bowed deeply. All the company followed suit, though Gil had to cling to Calenhil's arm to keep her balance as she did so.

"Hail, Éomer King, Lord of the Mark," the herald said. "I bring you greetings from Prince Imrahil, and bear letters for you and for King Elessar, if he be here."

"King Elessar has not yet come, but we look for him daily. How fares Gondor? When last Imrahil sent word, the Haradrim were mustering for war."

"The war is begun, Sire."

Eagerness flashed in Éomer's eyes and he held out his hand for the messenger's letters, saying, "Needs he men? Arms? Horses? Rohan will fight, if Gondor has need of us, though I must stay until the King himself comes to Edoras."

Before the herald could answer him, another voice broke in on their exchange, crying out in shrill delight, "Gil? Can it be you?"

Gil flushed in mingled embarrassment and pleasure, as Merry burst from around the table and through the staring company to reach her.

"It _is_ you! I do not believe it! Gil, in the flesh, in _Rohan!_"

"Peace, Master Merry," she muttered, throwing a nervous look toward the dais and Éomer's startled face. "The King…"

"Nonsense." He grabbed her hand and dragged her toward Éomer, calling happily, "Look, my lord! Did you ever think to see the Steward's squire in your golden hall?"

"Merry!" she protested, as he pulled her ruthlessly away from Calenhil's support. She took a step, felt her exhausted leg buckle beneath her, and gave an undignified squawk of pain. In the next moment, she tumbled to the floor to sprawl at the feet of Éomer King.

"This is an honor, indeed," he said soberly. "You are most welcome to Meduseld."

* * *

Gil studied her reflection in the tall bronze mirror, a discontented frown darkening her face. She looked well enough, clad as she was in a long gown of grass green with a silver girdle about her waist, but she did not like what she saw. The household was treating her with the respect due a lady of birth, with a serving girl to wait upon her, an herb-scented bath to soak away her travel dirt, and liniment to soothe the stiffness in her aching muscles. It was not seemly, nor was this garment, which would have better suited the Lady Éowyn than a drudge-turned-squire.

She was not sorry to see her wet and filthy riding leathers hauled away, but she was angry to find her squire's livery gone as well. The servant had assured her that the velvet surcote was dreadfully crumpled and damp, unfit to wear, and that she would be much more comfortable in the gown of soft wool until her own clothing was furbished up and her body less bruised. Gil could not argue with this reasoning, but she hesitated to show herself outside her chamber in clothing as unfamiliar as it was unsuitable.

A soft knock sounded on the door. Gil moved quickly to answer the summons, kicking impatiently at her long skirts when they snarled about her legs. She pulled open the door, preparing to send the serving girl on her way with a curt dismissal, but broke out in a smile instead at the sight of the halfling standing just outside with a heavily laden tray in his hands.

"Merry!"

"Hullo, Gil. Were you afraid I was another servant? I have seen them bustling to and fro, with cans of water and piles of clothing, and I knew they would put you in a temper." He held up the tray of food, and asked, "Are you hungry? May I join you for afternoon tea?"

"Come in." She stepped aside to give him and his enormous tray room to enter, then she shut the door and followed him to the hearth. "I am glad to see you, Master _perian_. With or without the tea."

"Any guest is more welcome when he brings his own provisions, especially a hobbit." Merry set the tray on the hearth, seated himself beside it, and reached for the teapot nestled between plates of cheese, cakes, bread and meat. "Shall I pour you a cup?"

"I am more hungry for news than food."

Merry blinked at her in amazement, then smiled and said, cheerfully, "You won't mind if I help myself, then, will you?"

"Not at all." Gil sat down on the warm stone of the hearth, across the mound of food from her companion, and fixed eager eyes on him. "Tell me how you come to be here, Merry. For yours is the last face I expected to see in Rohan."

"I might say the same of you," he answered, through a mouthful of seed cake. "When you walked into the Hall, you looked as if you had been dragged behind a horse all the way from Gondor, instead of riding one."

"I wish I had been," she said, ruefully.

"Well, you look a deal better now." His gaze traveled from the crown of her head, where her hair hung loose in a shadowy curtain about her shoulders, to the delicately slippered foot showing beneath the hem of her gown, and his eyes began to twinkle. "Though not so much like a squire."

Gil pulled a face. "You taught me too well. I find I cannot abide skirts, now that I have accustomed myself to breeches and boots. I have threatened the drudge who brought me this," she picked at her woolen sleeve disdainfully, "with dire punishments, if my livery is not clean by the time my lord comes to Edoras. I will not greet the Steward in this guise."

"Boromir will be glad to find you here, no matter what you wear."

"As he will you. Tell me, Merry, how you come to be in Rohan."

"A dream brought me."

"A dream?"

"Yes." Merry eyed her thoughtfully for a moment, as if measuring her willingness to trust, then he smiled a trifle sadly and said, "Boromir once told me that I would know when he had need of me. It seems he was right."

"Tell me your tale."

Providing himself with a fresh cup of tea and a thick slab of bread and cheese to sustain him, Merry settled down to do just that.

* * *

"The King! The King is come!"

As Aragorn rode at the head of his company up the steeply climbing street, he heard the cry go up and saw children scampering ahead of him to spread the news through the city. People hurried to line the roadway, heedless of the steady grey rain that fell upon them. They cheered the weary, sodden, mud-splattered travelers, rejoicing to see Gondor's King among them at last, when their own good King had awaited him with such eagerness.

"The King is come!" the children shouted, dancing up the street, and the chant was taken up by the crowd now following in Aragorn's wake. "Elessar is come to Rohan!"

They had nearly reached the top of the street and the greensward at the foot of the stair, when Aragorn heard another shout that carried piercingly above the noise of celebration and brought his head up with a start. "_Aragorn!_ _Aragorn!_"

The voices were high and glad, utterly familiar and completely unexpected in this time and place. Aragorn looked toward the long stone stairway and saw a handful of figures bounding down it. Two of them were fleeter of foot than the others and reached the bottom of the stair by the time Roheryn stepped onto the green. They flew across the open ground, calling Aragorn's name in shrill tones, and fairly hurled themselves at his horse.

"What is this?" Legolas cried in delight. "Hobbits? _Here?_"

"Yes, yes," Pippin laughed, bouncing on his toes in excitement as he hung on Aragorn's stirrup. "We rode all the way from the Shire to find you, and we thought you would never come! What has taken you so long? And where is Boromir?"

Aragorn swung down from Roheryn's saddle and dropped to one knee on the wet grass, opening his arms to embrace his small friends. "Merry! Pippin! This is a happy chance, indeed! You cannot know how glad I am to find you here."

"It wasn't chance at all," Pippin said, "but Merry's dreams that brought us to Rohan."

"And you aren't half as glad as we are," Merry put in fervently.

Éomer, Gimli and a youth whom Aragorn took for one of Éomer's retainers came up to them in time to hear Merry's remark. Éomer, setting aside kingly courtesies, greeted Aragorn with a chuckle and said, "It has cost me dear in provender and patience to keep these two safe in Edoras against your coming, Aragorn. Master Meriadoc was on the point of riding out to find you a score of times."

"I must see Boromir," Merry said, his face twisting with the effort of holding in his emotion. "Please, Aragorn, where is he?"

Aragorn rose to his feet and turned to watch the rest of the company climb the last, steepest part of the hill. In the middle of the column rolled the blacksmith's cart, a tent lashed across its high sides to keep out the rain, a bedraggled pony laboring between its shafts to pull it, and an ill-tempered goat tethered behind it. He nodded toward the wretched vehicle.

"He and Borlas are in the cart."

Merry gave a cry and started down the hill at a run. The youth, who had stood silently at Éomer's back until now, followed him, and Aragorn caught a glimpse of black hair and a pale, mask-like face as he sped past.

"Here, now!" Aragorn called, startled, and made a move to catch the youth's arm.

"Let her go, Aragorn," Gimli chided, his sturdy frame shaken with laughter. "She has braved her own horrors to be here and has waited more patiently than most for Boromir's return. Let her go to him."

"It cannot be. Gil would not come so far from Minas Tirith, even for Boromir." Even as the words left his lips, he realized how foolish they sounded. He watched Merry and Gil dart around to the back of the cart, a smile dawning on his drawn and weary face. Merry lifted the heavy canvas that covered the cart and scrambled up under it, while Gil fell into step at the cart's tail, keeping pace with the goat.

"The Steward's squire belongs at the Steward's side," Éomer murmured, unknowingly echoing Imrahil's words. "Even if she came there tied to her own horse."

* * *

Aragorn sat at a roughhewn wooden table, spread with the remains of a hearty meal. The dishes and cups had been pushed aside to make room for a large map covered with marks and notations, and several rolls of parchment. Legolas and Faramir bent over the map, while Éomer and Gimli, who had seen it often enough before, sat back in their chairs and waited for Aragorn to finish reading Imrahil's most recent letter.

The King read in grim silence, his face growing darker with every passing moment. When he reached the end of the letter, he let the parchment curl in upon itself but still held it between his hands, his eyes fixed on nothing while his thoughts flew to Minas Tirith. To Imrahil, who strove so valiantly to fill the place of both King and Steward, while his people fought to hold back the plundering Haradrim and traitors stalked the circles of the White City.

"What says Imrahil?" Faramir asked, softly, breaking in on Aragorn's dark musings.

"The war has begun." Aragorn lifted his eyes to meet those of his friends and counselors, now fixed intently upon him. "The Haradrim are driving west, trying to cross the River and attack Lebennin, but Ciryon's troops in South Gondor have held them at bay thus far."

Faramir, his face suddenly pale, sank into an empty chair on the King's right hand. His eyes moved to the map and traced the line of Anduin down to the place where countless colored shapes, arrows, runes and scrawled notes marked the location of Gondor's armies. "Who leads our troops?"

"Ciryon. Imrahil cannot leave Minas Tirith, and Beregond commands the Rangers of Ithilien, who hold the eastern bank of the River as far as the Poros, and who act as Imrahil's spies in South Gondor. Without Imrahil to lead them, the lords of the southern fiefdoms have placed themselves and their men under the command of Ciryon."

Aragorn laid the parchment carefully aside and looked about the circle of grave faces confronting him. "It seems the Haradrim chose their time carefully. They waited until the rumor that their beloved Captain-General was dead had taken the heart from Gondor's armies, and until it was known that the King tarried in the far wilderness on a fool's errand, then they pressed the attack."

Legolas' fair brows lifted, and he exchanged a look with Gimli that was heavy with understanding. "Taleris."

"Aye," Gimli grunted. "It must have been he who sent word of Boromir's loss to the Haradrim."

"So Imrahil believes," Aragorn said. "But when he wrote this letter, he still had not found proof enough of Taleris' guilt to accuse him openly."

"What will you do, Aragorn?" Éomer asked.

The King sighed and pressed his fingertips to his eyes, as if to force away the memory of the words he had read. "Imrahil begs me to ride with all haste for Gondor."

Éomer nodded. "That much is certain. But will you go south to…"

Aragorn's head jerked up sharply and he frowned at Éomer, startling the younger man into silence. "Certain?" he demanded, his voice suddenly harsh. "Certain to you, mayhap, but not to me!"

The others exchanged troubled looks. Then, after an awkward moment, Faramir ventured, "My lord, you cannot leave our people leaderless at such a time."

"Imrahil leads them."

"They need their King."

Aragorn's frowned deepened, and grief roughened voice. "Aye, and the King's duty is clear. But what of my duty as a friend and a healer? When do I give back a measure of the love and loyalty given me so freely, not to my crown or my people, but to my _friends?_"

"Aragorn." Legolas stretched a hand across the table to clasp Aragorn's arm in a gesture of comfort. "Do not punish yourself for what you cannot change. Boromir will understand."

Aragorn gave a short, harsh laugh that sounded more like a sob, and said, "I do not doubt it, could I but find the strength to ask it of him. But I cannot do it, Legolas. I cannot abandon him, yet again."

"There is no question of abandonment," Éomer said firmly. "He is not lost in the wilderness or languishing in an Orc den. He is safe under my roof and in my care."

"The last time I left him in your care, you gave him a horse and sent him off to war!"

"For which you thanked me in the end!" Éomer snapped, then, controlling his flare of temper, he added, "You know that I love Boromir as a brother, and I would never let harm come to him. You have my oath, as Rohan's King, that I will guard his life with my own."

Aragorn lifted a hand to silence him and lurched to his feet. He began to pace the near end of the chamber, circling from the table to the hearth and back again, while he spoke rapidly in a low, strained tone.

"I do not fear for Boromir's life, and I require no such vow of you, Éomer. 'Tis not his wounds that would keep me at his side, but the memory of the times I have put my duty ahead of the love I owe him. In this very house, I told him that duty called me to Gondor and that he must remain behind. I nearly lost him in that moment. I nearly destroyed a love and fealty that had survived the poison of the Ring, the torture of Saruman and endless darkness. How can I risk such a loss again? How can I look in his face and tell him that Gondor's King must go to war once again without his Steward?"

No one answered him, and he halted his pacing to turn and look at the four staunch friends gathered about the table, all watching him with eyes full of understanding and pity.

"Tell me how to do it, and I will ride for Minas Tirith as soon as my horse can be saddled."

Still no one spoke, until finally Legolas rose from his chair and crossed to where Aragorn stood. Putting out his hand, he clasped the Man's forearm in a soldier's salute and said, in his clear, musical voice, "Of all the evils in this world, the loss of Boromir's love is the last that you should fear. Read him Imrahil's letter, ask for his counsel, and see how swiftly he sends you packing to Gondor to drive the Haradrim from your lands."

When Aragorn hesitated, his eyes still troubled and full of grief, Legolas bent his head to bring his voice closer and dropped it to reach only Aragorn's ears. "Trust him, my king. Trust that his sense of duty and love for his people are as strong as yours."

Aragorn nodded, squeezed Legolas' forearm in gratitude, then dropped his hand and stepped back. Speaking to all of them, he said, "I will seek my Steward's counsel in this matter." He started for the door, adding over his shoulder, "Have the company prepare to ride at daybreak, but saddle no horses and say no farewells until I return."

Then he was through the door and gone, his stride quickening until he was nearly running down the long, stone-flagged hallway.

* * *

He dreamed of voices. Soft voices, soothing, cajoling, comforting. Some were those he expected to hear, and so welcome were they in the darkness that they nearly persuaded him he was awake and lying in a wide, warm bed in a quiet room. But then the other voices came, the voices of friends who could not possibly be with him, no matter how he longed for them. Merry, Pippin, even Gil. And Boromir knew that his heart had betrayed him. Then he fled deeper into unconsciousness, where nothing could touch him.

In the middle of such a dream, surrounded by the voices that could not exist except in his imaginings, he felt a hand behind his head and a cup against his lips. Arwen spoke from close above him, urging him to drink. He obediently swallowed the cool liquid poured into his mouth and sighed with relief when she let him settle into his pillow again.

"That is well, Boromir. Rest now, until I bring your supper."

He grunted a wordless reply and pushed his head more deeply into the clean, fat pillow that supported it. A whiff of herb-scented soap reached him, and he frowned in confusion. Arwen did not smell of soap. Nor did his makeshift bed in the cart. And certainly the goat, his constant companion throughout the journey, did not smell so sweet. Something had changed.

Boromir was suddenly alert, certain that he was not asleep and that the quiet warmth in which he lay was real. It _was_ a pillow beneath his head, not a rolled cloak, and a soft bed beneath him rather than the punishing boards of the cart. He could hear no creak of harness, no tramp of hooves, no child coughing harshly in shivering darkness. All was quiet, but for the crackling of a nearby fire and the sound of someone breathing.

He drew in a long breath, tasting the air, and grimaced slightly when the smoke from the fire caught at his throat.

"I am sorry about the fire," Arwen said, "but you need its warmth."

Boromir hesitated for a moment, absorbing the familiar feel of the room, then muttered, "Meduseld."

"Aye."

"You arrived several hours ago," another voice piped in. "We've been trying to tell you, but you kept insisting that we aren't real and going back to sleep."

Boromir gave a start at the sound of that voice, and he reached instinctively to find it, though he knew it could not be there. "Merry?"

"Yes, it's me." Small, sturdy fingers clasped Boromir's, and a weight settled on the edge of the mattress beside him.

"Merry!"

The hobbit chuckled. "You needn't look at me like that, Boromir. I'm not a ghost, or a dream."

"I am the ghost, I think. Or I am mad. Can it be you, Little One?" He lifted his hand, still clasped tightly in both of Merry's, and brushed the backs of his fingers against the halfling's face. It was wet with tears but undeniably warm and solid.

Merry uttered something between a laugh and a sob and turned to press a kiss to Boromir's hand.

"Merry." The ache in Boromir's chest threatened to burst his ribs asunder, as his weeks of fear and longing dissolved into gladness. His voice roughened with tears he could not shed, and his fingers tightened convulsively about the hobbit's smaller hand. "My dear Merry."

Boromir could find no other words to say, and Merry seemed to understand. They sat in silence, Merry clutching Boromir's hand to his breast and weeping softly, while Boromir tried to pierce a lifetime of darkness and the cloth that shrouded his eyes to look upon his friend's face once again. He knew it was a fruitless effort, but in that moment of agonizing happiness, a memory was not enough.

"How is it you are here, Merry?" he finally asked, forcing the words out through the thickness of his throat.

"I knew that something dreadful had happened to you, and I had to come find you." The hobbit sniffled loudly and freed one hand to wipe his eyes on his sleeve. "Of course, I came too late to be of any help, just as Pippin said I would, but at least I am here to welcome you home. That is something."

"It is a good deal more than _something_," Boromir murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. "You should know better than to heed Pippin."

"Well, I do, but it's a long trip from Buckland, and I had no one else…"

Boromir clutched at his hand in surprise, cutting off his words, and said, "Pippin rode with you? Then he is here, and the voices I heard in my dream were real? _All_ of the voices?"

"Yes, we were all here with you."

"Gil." Hope and disbelief warred in him, bringing him upright before he had time to consider his body's weakness. He sat up abruptly, swaying with giddy exhaustion, while Merry and Arwen cried out in protest and caught his arms to keep him from falling. He ignored them both, all his attention fixed upon a third pair of hands and the dry, flat, infinitely welcome voice attached to them.

"Certainly I am here, my lord. Where else would I be?" As she spoke, she tucked a pillow behind his back and plumped it expertly, then she clasped his shoulder and pushed it firmly back against this new support.

Boromir caught her hand before she could withdraw and felt it stiffen in his clasp. "You are the last person I hoped to find in Rohan."

She tried to pull away, but Boromir mustered enough strength to keep hold of her hand, and after a moment of struggle she subsided. Her voice went even flatter, a sure sign that she was embarrassed. "Prince Imrahil gave me leave to come. My place is with my liege lord."

"Aye, so it is." He could hear the emotion in his own voice and knew that he was unsettling his very proper squire, but he could not help himself. He was deeply, powerfully, painfully glad to find her here, and that gladness was strengthened by the knowledge that only devotion to him could have dragged her so far from her home. For a terrible moment, he fought the overwhelming desire to pull her into his arms and hold her tightly against him, as a shield against the darkness and his haunted dreams, but he mastered it and let go her hand with a smile. "Thank you, Gil."

For the space of a breath she did not answer him, then she said, in an uncertain tone that held none of her accustomed dryness, "Like Merry, I could not stay away."

He lifted his hand again, as if to reach for her, but the sound of booted feet against the stone flags outside halted him. Dropping his arm, he turned toward the door even as it burst open and Aragorn strode into the room.

Boromir knew his step, knew the sound of his velvet robe brushing against his leather scabbard with each stride, and knew that he had put off his Ranger's garb to assume the trappings of a King again. He also knew, from the tempo of his movements, that he was angry or upset and not come for idle conversation. Arwen started toward him, a question on her lips, but Aragorn cut her off abruptly.

"I would speak to Boromir alone."

The others responded to the command in his voice, Gil retreating hastily and Merry reluctantly, while Arwen paused to murmur in her lord's ear as she went. Aragorn shut the door on their heels, but he did not turn or cross the room to the bed where Boromir lay. Boromir heard the breath rasping in his lungs and the soft scuff of his boots against the floor when he shifted his weight, and he felt the burden that his King carried, even from this distance.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. Then Aragorn mustered his courage and turned to face his friend. "I am glad to find you awake and more yourself."

Boromir answered him with a low chuckle that had little amusement in it.

"If those two halflings keep you from your rest or tease you into a fever, I will skin them alive."

"They are better medicine than any you can brew, Aragorn." Boromir pondered his dour mood for a moment, then came to the obvious conclusion as to its cause. "You have word from Imrahil."

"Aye." Aragorn moved slowly over to the bed and sank onto the mattress. Boromir did not need to see him to know that his shoulders drooped and his face was etched with sadness. "He bids me return to Minas Tirith with all possible haste."

"When do you go?"

Instead of answering his question directly, Aragorn sighed and said, "I am too weary, too sick at heart to play out this scene again. I vowed that this time I would not put my duty to Gondor ahead of my duty to you, but…"

"That is a fool's promise, and you are no fool, Aragorn." Reaching a hand toward his friend's low, pain-edged voice, Boromir found his arm and clasped it warmly. "You cannot stay for me."

"And yet, I cannot go."

"You must."

"But what of you?"

"I do not need you hovering about me to heal. Éomer's cooks can brew that miserable pap you call food without your help, the halflings can cheer me with their tales, and Gil can turn my pillows."

Aragorn uttered a choked laugh, but his hand closed fiercely over Boromir's, betraying his agony and dread with his touch. "You must not follow me, Boromir! Not this time! As your King, I command you to stay here in Rohan, heal, and wait for me."

"I cannot climb out of this bed, much less into a saddle," Boromir protested.

Aragorn said nothing, his silence heavy with doubt and his glare hot on Boromir's face.

"I will obey you," Boromir assured him. "I will stay in Rohan, you have my word. But I ask a promise of you in return, Aragorn."

"What is it?"

"That when the battles are won and I am well enough to sit a horse, you will call me home to Minas Tirith to stand at your side once more."

"You have your King's oath on it."

They both fell quiet, Aragorn still clasping Boromir's hand but turning his eyes away so that Boromir could not feel their touch on him, and Boromir resting against his stacked pillows, too weary and content to summon the strength for speech.

"We leave at daybreak," Aragorn murmured at last. "Faramir goes with me, for I need all my Captains about me, but I will leave Arwen as healer in my stead and the halflings for company."

"What of Gil?"

He laughed. "A barrel of Saruman's black powder could not blast her from your side, now that she has found you once more."

An unaccustomed warmth gathered in Boromir's breast at his words, and he smiled to himself. Strange as it seemed, he found Aragorn's going much easier to bear, knowing that Gil would be by him. And Merry. He might chafe at his long convalescence and burn for news of the war's progress, but he would not feel lonely, not with such companions to fill his days.

"Be kind to your squire," Aragorn added softly, "and do not tease her more than you can help. She suffered much to be here, not the least in affronts to her pride. Éomer tells me that she arrived in Edoras tied to her horse and had to be carried up the stair to his door. She ended her journey by falling on her face before the whole company and the King himself."

"Poor Gil," Boromir murmured. "How that must have galled her."

"Aye." He rose to his feet but stayed by the bed, still holding tightly to Boromir's hand. Once again, he fell silent, struggling with emotions too great for words, unable to break the bond between them and walk away.

"Farewell, my King," Boromir said at last, his voice cracking with weariness.

"Farewell, my brother." He stooped to drop a kiss on Boromir's brow, then he let go his hand and took a step back from the bed. "I leave the star of my kindred in your keeping as a reminder of my love and my promise. I will bring you home, Boromir. Soon."

Boromir rested his palm flat over the gem that hung beneath his nightshirt, against his heart, and smiled. "I will be waiting."

Not trusting his voice to utter a reply, Aragorn turned and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. No sooner had his footsteps faded along the stone-flagged corridor, then the door opened again and another, lighter step came through it. Boromir heard the faint clink of dishes rattling, as the newcomer crossed to the hearth and set down a heavily laden tray.

Boromir waited until the footsteps approached his bed, then he mustered a tired smile and said, "Hello, Gil."

"I have brought your supper, my lord."

"What sort of supper?"

"Bread and cheese. Apples. Hot tea."

"None of that foul drink made of milk and eggs?" Boromir asked, hopefully.

"None, lord."

"Well, that is some measure of relief. But I want sleep more than food."

Gil moved from her place at the foot of the bed to stand by his shoulder. She studied his face for a moment in frowning silence, then said, "The Lady Arwen prepared the tray with her own hands, and Lord Elfstone left orders that you were to eat every last crumb."

"Eat it yourself, or call Merry in to help you. I cannot. I will fall asleep in my plate."

"As you will, my lord," she sighed, plucking at the pillows that supported him, "but the halfling shall have none of it. I will take it back to the kitchen and fetch it again when you awake."

Boromir pushed away from the stacked pillows and braced himself upright, while Gil whisked them away. He did not have the breath to answer her, so weak and light-headed was he, until she put a hand behind his neck and helped him to lie back on the bed. As he settled into the one remaining pillow, he gave a groan of relief and whispered, "Better give it to Merry."

Gil uttered her habitual grunt of disapproval. She began to twitch his blankets into place, but he caught her hand, making her stiffen in alarm and step hastily back from the bed. He tightened his hold on her and said, "Cease your fussing and sit down, Gil."

"You must rest, lord," she protested.

"I will rest the better with you here."

"What of the tray?"

"Leave it." When she still hesitated, her fingers shrinking in his clasp and her body edging as far from the bed as she could manage without forcibly breaking his grip on her, he snapped, "Sit!"

Her hand went limp in his and her voice flattened. "As you will, my lord." With a clunk, she dragged a chair forward, then she dropped defiantly into it.

"Stop saying that," he murmured, as he tucked her cold, unmoving hand more comfortably into his own and pulled it in close to his side. "You only do it to annoy me."

"Aye, lord."

Boromir merely smiled at this and sank gratefully into a dreamless, healing sleep.

_**To be continued…**_


	14. Into the Open

**Author's Note:** This chapter is a birthday gift for Annys, and a get well gift for Bookwyrm (the bugs are just for you, Kathie!). Thank you for sticking with me when I'm slow to write, and for encouraging me when I get stuck. I hope you all enjoy the chapter!

-- Chevy

**Chapter 14: _Into the Open _**

_The howl of orcish laughter sounded in his ears, and the stink of cooking flesh choked him. A child sobbed hysterically in the darkness. He snarled a protest and tried to throw off the horned hands that gripped him, but his captors were too strong for him. They dragged him remorselessly closer to the fire and the foul pot that bubbled over it. A knife scraped from its scabbard, and cold iron touched his throat. _

_"Time to spill your guts on the floor," a hideously familiar voice hissed in his ear. "Die well now, little soldier!"_

_He uttered a furious cry and tore his arm from the Orc's clasp. As he staggered back from the pot, his wounded leg crumpled beneath him. Blood ran hot over his skin. Pain seared through him, dragging a scream from his tortured throat._

Boromir awoke with a gasp of pain and shock, his leg throbbing and his body damp with sweat. For a dreadful moment, he did not know where he was, and the laughter of the Orcs still rang in his ears, squeezing his heart with fear. Then recognition seeped through the horror of his dream, and he knew that he was safe in Edoras.

Collapsing back into his pillow, he uttered a soft groan and pressed one hand to his breast, where the Star of the Dúnedain hung on its leather thong. Beneath the gem, his heart pounded frantically and the breath sobbed in his lungs. He lay very still, listening to the sleeping quiet of the house, waiting for the fear to pass, but the pain of his wound only grew and his pulse quickened yet more. He had fallen asleep with the leg as comfortable as Arwen's ministrations could make it, the wound cleaned and dressed with honey, left uncovered as Aragorn had instructed, the blankets held away from it by a framework of wooden sticks that formed a kind of tent. Now, as he moved restlessly in the grip of his pain, he felt the sheet rub against his torn flesh and a sharp, stabbing pain in the wound itself.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows, he freed one hand and flung aside the heavy blankets that covered him. Cold air flowed over his body, making him shiver as he reached for the source of his pain. His fingers brushed wood, knocking aside a piece of the collapsed framework that lay upon his open wound, and he gave a startled cry as a fresh agony shot through him.

He lurched upright and clamped one hand hard to the muscle of his thigh, leaning all of his weight upon it. With his head bowed, breathing fast through clenched teeth, he struggled to swallow the panic and roiling sickness within him. The pain of it was terrible, but he had grown almost accustomed to it in these weeks of ceaseless torture. It had been his constant companion through the long trial of his captivity, and now it was a reminder to him that he had indeed survived, that he could still hurt and bleed and weep with all the race of Men, even if he shed no tears.

At this moment, he wanted desperately to weep, or to shout until he woke the house and brought Merry or Gil running to him, but pride and stubbornness held him silent. He did not know why all his friends had left him tonight, but he scorned to call for them like a frightened child, no matter how he shivered with cold or burned with pain. He was a soldier of Gondor, the son of Denethor, veteran of many wars, brother-in-arms to King Elessar, slayer of Orcs and leader of Men…

The litany calmed him, and he slowly straightened his back, easing his death grip on his burning, throbbing leg. Resting both hands lightly on the grotesque swelling of his thigh, he let the cold of his touch soothe the pain. The window stood open, and a bitter wind off the plains blew steadily through it, chilling him to the bone, but his leg still felt hot beneath his hands. He eased them cautiously downward, closer to the wound itself, hoping to cool it still more, until he felt his fingers slide in melted honey.

A queasy mixture of disgust and curiosity rose in him, as he hesitated with his hands poised just above the wound and wondered what he would find if he dared touch it. In all the weeks since his injury, this was the first time he had found himself alone and unguarded, with the wound uncovered and his hands unbound. He was free to examine the wound, to measure its full extent for himself, without Aragorn there to chide him for his lack of faith. All he need do was touch it, if he could summon the courage to face this fresh horror. Boromir of Gondor had never lacked courage, he reminded himself stoutly, and setting his teeth against the bile that rose in his throat, he forced his hands to move.

His fingers skimmed lightly over skin and muscle, tracing the contours of the wound. He paid no heed to the sticky, sweet-smelling honey that quickly covered his hands, nor to the pain that burned hot at his touch. All his mind was focused on seeing the ruin of his leg through his fingertips.

It felt to him as if a great dollop of flesh had been scooped out of his leg, leaving a hole larger than his fist. He could not tell how deep it went, as even he, valiant soldier of Gondor, did not dare to reach inside the gaping cavern, but his mind conjured the ghastly white glimmer of naked bone in its depths. Beneath the skin, the hole widened even further, the rotten flesh and tissue cut away to leave a collar of skin, taut and sunken, with no meat to support it. The lips of the wound were raw and painful where they had been both torn and cut repeatedly, and they had not yet begun to thicken with scar tissue.

In his many battles, Boromir had seen every kind of destruction that steel or iron could wreak upon vulnerable flesh. He had watched men die in screaming agony, held their hands while battlefield surgeons hacked off their limbs, and bound up their wounds when no surgeon was at hand. He had pulled orc-blades from their guts and assured them that they would live to fight another day as they bled into the dirt. And he had wept over the mangled bodies of those comrades who had not lingered to hear his comforting lies. Now, as he finally grasped the enormity of his own injury, he marveled that he yet lived to feel the pain of it. By rights, he should have died in the Orc den when the fever took him. Only the questionable mercy of Uglúk and healing hands of the King had spared him. But could Aragorn's skill keep him whole, as well?

His hand went instinctively to the gem that hung round his neck. He clutched it in trembling, honey-smeared fingers and muttered, "Ah, Aragorn! Tell me again that this is a wound you can heal. Tell me that I will stand at your side once more."

No answer came to him, but he felt himself comforted nonetheless. Dragging the snarled blankets up to cover himself as best he could, he sank back on his pillow and held tightly to the Star that had guided him through so many dark places. A reminder, Aragorn had called it, of his love and his promise. Boromir did not doubt his love and needed no outward symbol of it, but he found it hard to believe in the promise just now. The stone steadied him, and the certainty that Aragorn would come for him, whether or not Boromir could stand on his own feet to welcome him, took the edge off of his fear.

He could not banish the fear all together, nor make himself comfortable enough to sleep, but he could wait out the long watches of the night with Aragorn's promise warm and solid in his hand.

* * *

The sound of the door opening broke the long quiet and dragged a sigh of relief from Boromir. He knew it was Gil before he heard her familiar step on the flagstones; Gil woke him each morning, with her pottering and fussing and straightening of blankets, then she stoked up the fire and brought him the breakfast he did not want but was obliged to choke down to please her. Cold and weary as he was after his sleepless night, with his leg burning and his head aching, he wanted nothing more than to hear his squire's flat voice scolding him and to feel her deft hands settling him comfortably once more. He would even eat without a battle, so grateful was he that she had come at last. 

"Is that you, Gil?" he called softly, trying to mask the rough edge of exhaustion in his voice.

"Aye, my lord."

"I am glad you are come."

Gil moved toward the bed, but halted abruptly. In the startled silence, Boromir fancied that she had guessed all that had passed in the night, simply by looking at the mess he had made of the bed. Giving a low grunt of disgust or distress – he could not tell which – she dropped the load of linens she carried on the foot of the bed and strode over to the window.

"What…"

Gil swung the shutters closed with a resounding thud, drowning out his words, then she grabbed an iron poker from its hook beside the hearth and jabbed it into the glowing embers of the fire.

"Gil! Stop that at once. Open the window."

"I beg your pardon, my lord, but I cannot." She threw a heavy log into the fire, sending sparks flying and snapping.

Boromir grimaced at the smoke that billowed into the room and demanded, "Are you trying to choke me, girl?"

"The cold will make you ill again, lord, if it has not already. You have a feverish look. I must fetch Lady Arwen."

"One does not _fetch_ the Queen, as if she were a serving girl!"

Gil did not seem to hear him. She hesitated at the door, calling back to him in a commanding tone, "Do not move, my lord."

"Confound it, Gil…" But she whisked out of the room without paying any heed to him, leaving him to fume helplessly and tug at his stubborn, honey-smeared bedding.

A moment later, he heard her pounding on another door nearby. Voices spoke in the hallway, too low for him to catch their words, but he recognized Merry's voice. Then the halfling came pattering into his room and up to the bed.

"Hullo, Boromir. Gil said you had a bad night." Merry sounded worried, and Boromir silently cursed Gil for upsetting him. "Can I do anything for you?"

"Be a good fellow and open the window."

"I will not. This room is freezing! And the wind is blowing straight off the mountains, bringing winter with it."

"I cannot breathe with all this smoke."

"Well, you must, for a while, anyway," Merry said matter-of-factly. "You're positively blue with cold! What have you been doing?"

Boromir tried to smile, but his face did not want to cooperate. Merry began tugging at his blankets, trying to disentangle them from his limbs, and jarred his injured leg. Boromir ground his teeth in pain, muttering, "I am beset with meddlesome nurses. Will you leave it be?"

"I'm sorry." Merry immediately quit pulling and said, remorsefully, "I only wanted to get you warm."

"Nay, Merry, I am sorry for my ill temper. I slept but little, and my leg hurts."

"You look dreadful. I should never have left you, but Arwen was certain that you would sleep through the night undisturbed. She and Éomer King seemed very anxious for me to sleep in my own room, though why I don't know."

This time, Boromir managed a proper smile. "Perhaps they fear you are endangering your own health in worrying over mine."

"Humph," Merry snorted. "I can sleep as well in here as in my own room; these chairs are nearly as big as a proper hobbit bed. And you would not have spent the night cold and in pain, if I had been by you."

Boromir privately agreed with the halfling, sure that Merry's presence would have kept his nightmares at bay, but he did not say as much aloud. Lifting one hand to find the smaller one that still clutched a fold of the coverlet, he said, "You cannot be with me every moment, Little One, and I would not ask it of you."

"Well, one of us can. That is why we came, after all, Pippin and I. To help." The hobbit's hand turned in his, returning the fond pressure of his fingers. Then Merry pulled sharply away from him and demanded, "What is that on your hand?"

"Honey."

"Ah, Boromir, what have you _done_?!"

"Naught but what I must, Merry." He tightened his hand on the halfling's, moved by the raw distress in his voice, and murmured, "I had to see it for myself."

Merry did not answer him at once, and when he did speak, his voice was thick with unshed tears. "I know. I only wish you had waited to let it heal a bit more."

If it heals at all, Boromir thought, and something in his face must have betrayed his doubts to his friend, for Merry insisted, "Aragorn says that you will walk again, and I believe him. He has never lied to me."

"Nor to me."

"Then he will heal your wound and have you on your feet again, as he has promised! But you must follow his instructions and take care not to undo all his hard work."

"Wise words, and kindly meant," a light, musical voice called from the doorway, and Arwen swept into the room, bringing the scent of fresh woodlands and spring rains with her. She also brought the smell of medicines and boiled bandages, not so pleasant to Boromir's mind, but not unexpected either. In recent days, he had come to view Aragorn's gracious Queen with a distrust bordering on dismay, as her arrival heralded painful treatments, unpalatable meals and unwelcome orders.

"It would be well if you heeded them," she added, as she approached the bed and set down the tray she carried on the table beside it. "Good morning, my lord Steward."

"My lady," Boromir said, with wary courtesy. He could hear more footsteps bustling about at the hearth and guessed the Gil had come with the Queen, but he did not vouchsafe her a greeting. All his attention was fixed upon Arwen and the atrocities she planned to visit upon him in the name of healing. "I should skin Gil for summoning you at such an hour to no purpose."

"Do not blame Gil." She stooped over his leg, gazing intently at the great hole in it, and said, a smile glimmering in her voice, "She did not put her fingers in your wound or smear you with honey."

"I passed a restless night," he growled through clenched teeth, as she probed his wound, testing the soundness of the flesh around it, "and snarled the blankets about my leg. When I awoke… ah!"

Arwen left off prodding him at his cry and said, "The flesh is torn here. It is bleeding still."

"It was those confounded sticks you used to hold up the blankets. I moved in my sleep and crushed them into my leg."

Her cool handed rested on his thigh, where the swelling and heat were fiercest, and for the moment her touch was soothing. "I am sorry, Boromir. I meant to give you ease, not to cause you greater pain."

"It was the dream," he muttered, embarrassed by her saddened tone. "It addled my wits, or I would not have touched the wound at all."

"Well, you have done yourself no lasting injury, and a simple cleaning will keep the wound from infection. For today, I will bandage it, so you may rest and move about, unhampered."

Boromir wanted to ask of her what she had meant by _move about_, but Arwen did not leave him time or breath for conversation. With all the cool authority of an Elf Princess, a Queen among Men and a healer combined, she swept her helpers into motion and set about tormenting Boromir for his own good. He had grown used to the twice-daily cleansing of his wound and had surrendered to the necessity of it, but acceptance did not lessen the pain or the humiliation of being reduced to no more than a useless lump of meat, scoured and dosed and dressed and bandaged, bundled about by firm, efficient hands, while his body trembled and his mind reeled into gibbering darkness.

He came back to himself to find a stack of clean pillows supporting his back and warm blankets tucked close about him. A bandage covered his wound, and the agony in his leg was fading to a dull, insistent ache. Merry sat on the bed to his right, wiping the last of honey from his fingers with a warm, wet cloth. Boromir breathed a sigh of relief and pressed his free hand to his brow in an effort to force back the pain that pounded in his skull. His fingers still shook slightly, but he took another calming breath and willed them to steadiness.

"Rest now, Boromir," the Queen said, her voice low and soothing. "Gil has gone to fetch your breakfast, and when you have eaten, you may sleep the morning through undisturbed."

She sank down on the edge of the mattress and clasped his wrist to draw his hand away from his face. Boromir did not resist her, but let her take his hand in both of her own and rest it on her knee. He turned to find her with his bandaged gaze, puzzled and moved by the gentleness of her touch. He had known Arwen for many years now, but he had never known her in this mood.

"Get you to your own breakfast, Master _Perian_," she said lightly, "and shut the door, I pray you. I will keep the Steward company until Gil returns."

Merry obediently hopped down from the bed and left the room, calling a farewell to Boromir as he went. The door closed firmly behind him, and Boromir was alone with Lady Arwen. He fixed her with the steady regard that seemed to unnerve most who faced it, and waited for her to break the silence.

"You have seen the wound," she said at last.

"Aye," he answered, his own voice sounding harsh following so soon on the Queen's musical tones.

"It is terrible, but it is not beyond Aragorn's skill to heal." He said nothing, and Arwen's voice grew sad as she continued, "Take the halfling's words to heart, and do not despair. Your King and brother would not deceive you."

"Unless he first deceives himself. Tell me true, my lady, could you heal such a wound and make the leg sound again?"

Her voice grew sadder still. "I could not. But I have not my father's gift for healing, nor Aragorn's. I am but his nurse and helpmate."

"And I am but a soldier, who has watched Men die – strong, valiant Men – of lesser wounds than this. I have no strength left in me, lady, and my valor is spent. How is it that I yet live?"

"You live, because you are too stubborn to die, and because valor such as yours is never spent."

Boromir smiled wearily. "You speak as Aragorn teaches you."

"I speak from my own heart, of what I see with my own eyes. I have only begun to learn the ways of Men, 'tis true, but this I know beyond doubt. That in all the race of Men, there is none so valiant as Boromir. Greater men there are, and wiser, those more just and fair, those keener of eye," she chuckled softly, the sound brimming with affection, "and stouter of limb. But in stubbornness and valor, there is none to match him."

"Lady…" he began, uncomfortably, but she overrode him.

"You survived your captivity, and you slew the Orcs," she said firmly, "and were all your life besides an empty vessel, with no deed of renown to fill it, this alone would earn you my undying gratitude and respect. Boromir, do you know aught of my mother's history?"

His discomfort increased tenfold, and only through a supreme effort of will did he prevent himself from squirming away from the Queen and her searching questions. "Aragorn has told me a little," he replied.

"My mother, Celebrían, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn, was waylaid by orcs when she traveled through the Misty Mountains between Lothlórien and Imladris. My brothers rescued her and bore her home, but the torment she suffered in the Orc dens was always with her. It shadowed her mind and heart, casting her into darkness even as she walked in the clear sunlight, until she could no longer bear to remain within sight of those cursed mountains or in the land where sorrow dwelt. And so she took ship from the Havens and sailed into the West. She left all that she most loved and fled Middle-earth, rather than endure the memory of what those beasts, those _Yrch_, had done to her."

"We Men cannot flee our torments in such a way. We must endure them, or die."

"Or take up your sword and strike them down. Destroy them." The smile returned to her voice for a fleeting moment, like the sun peeping from behind a cloud. "Burn them as they sleep."

"The Orcs burn; the memories of them do not. I do not think the less of your mother for escaping them where she could."

"Nor do I. Please understand me, Boromir. I do not speak of these things to burden you with the sorrows of my younger days, but to show you how deep is my gladness at the victory you have won. Elf though I am, no Man and no soldier, still I see clearly enough into your soldier's heart to know that only by slaying the Orcs and bringing the child Borlas alive from the darkness has the valiant Steward of Gondor earned the right to live in hope again. It is a victory that was denied my own mother, and all her kindred suffered with her for it. I rejoice that you and all who love you will be spared that same kind of suffering. And I do not doubt that you will once again walk in the clear sunlight, unshadowed by that evil which you have conquered."

Masking his discomfiture with sour humor, he said dryly, "Do you not mean _crawl_ in the sunlight? Or perhaps hobble?"

Arwen laughed outright at that, the sound filling the room with silver light. "Oh, faithless Boromir! Well, then, let us begin with the smallest of steps. Let us say that you will _sit_ in the sunlight, and this very afternoon."

Boromir gaped at her for a moment, then demanded, "Do you mean to drag the sun into my chamber?"

"Nay, I mean to drag you out of it, if the weather holds and the sun still shines at midday."

A thunderous frown darkened his face, and he spoke through gritted teeth. "You will not! I'll not be carted about like a helpless cripple!"

"Certainly, my lord Steward, you may walk out of the Hall upon your own two feet, if that is your desire."

"You know that I cannot!"

"Well, mayhap not this day," Arwen agreed calmly, "drained as you are from the journey and a poor night's sleep, but ere the week is out I will have you up and walking."

Something about her tone of serene assurance robbed Boromir of words. He could feel his mouth opening and closing in a foolish manner, and recalling himself to a semblance of dignity, he shut it with a snap. What was Arwen about to taunt him in this way? Had she some purpose for angering and humiliating him? Or did she yet know so little of Men that she thought him amused by her banter?

"I am in earnest, Boromir," she said quietly, her voice now low and firm, with no hint of laughter in it. "I do not speak so to torment you with what cannot be. I speak only of what you _must_ do, if you would find both strength and health again. Your weeks in the darkness beneath the mountains have sapped you of both, leaving your body weakened and your bones brittle. The warmth and power of the sun will speed your healing. And only by forcing them to bear your weight can you strengthen your bones. You must walk now, if you would walk at all."

Boromir heard her in rigid silence, his face a frowning mask, while his mind reeled under this fresh assault. He did not doubt her word. She was Aragorn's lady, Elrond's daughter, and a healer of some skill in her own right. What he doubted was his courage to face the challenge she laid before him.

"Do not dwell upon tomorrow's trials," she urged. "For today, you need only rest and enjoy the touch of the sun, so long denied you. And put your trust in Aragorn."

"This is his command?"

"Aye."

"Then I have no choice but to obey."

The door opened upon his choked, reluctant words, and Gil came through it with a laden tray.

"Yet more of my King's commands?" he said, waving a hand in Gil's direction and trying valiantly not to sound as bitter as he felt. "Enough food for an _éored_, and I must eat every last crumb, though I burst in the process."

"Aye." Arwen let go his hand and stooped over the bed to give his pillows a final plump. "Every last crumb, and do not think of giving it to the halflings. I will hear of it from Gil, if you do."

He made a disgruntled noise in his throat and muttered, "Setting my own squire to spy upon me. I thought the Eldar were above such stratagems."

Arwen merely laughed and drifted toward the door on her light, nearly soundless feet. "All Meduseld is full of my spies, my lord Steward. Do not hope to deceive me. I will leave you to Gil's care, now. Rest well."

She swept out of the chamber, taking the smell of Rivendell with her, and Boromir sank back into his heaped pillows with a small sigh. He was deadly tired, his body full of pain and his mind crowded with shadows. While his reason told him that Arwen was right and he should rest in the quiet warmth of his room, the smell of smoke and flame troubled him even when awake. He feared to brave sleep again and the haunting of his dreams.

Gil approached the bed with her tray and set it on the chest to his left. It smelled innocent enough, and he even thought he detected a whiff of hot porridge mingled with the scent of tea brewing. He smiled faintly at Gil and murmured, "Have you brought me porridge today?"

She placed a wooden bowl in his hands, waiting until he had closed his fingers firmly about it before she let go. "'Tis more fit for a drudge's meal than a Steward's. But as you will eat nothing else without a battle…"

"Bless you, Gil. Now, if you will open the window shutters…"

Uttering a sour, disapproving grunt, she ignored his request and plunked down in the chair beside the bed, preparing to do Arwen's bidding and watch him eat every bite of his breakfast.

Boromir lifted the bowl to his lips and took a judicious sip of the thick, warm, fragrant mixture. "You need not stare at me so. I am behaving." He took another, larger mouthful, swallowed it, and said, "Will you not reward me for my obedience? Talk to me. Help me to stay awake."

"Talk of what, lord?"

"Tell me a tale, one of those Elvish stories Ioreth taught you. Or sing a song."

"I do not sing, lord, as you well know, and I do not tell Elvish tales. But I will not let you fall asleep until you have finished your meal."

"It is not my meal that worries me. It is after I am done with eating and my body betrays me out of weariness." A frown darkened his face for a moment, as the memory of his dreams in the night came to him. "I would not sleep."

"You must, my lord, or you will not heal."

"Enough!" he snapped, only just controlling the urge to throw his bowl at her head as frustrated rage boiled up in him. "Am I naught but a mass of injuries and illnesses, to be coddled and jollied and poked and dosed, until I run mad? Must every breath I take be measured by how it will hinder or speed my healing? I thought you my squire, not my wet nurse!"

Even as the words left his mouth, Boromir knew that he was acting out of a blind anger that had naught to do with Gil, and that he was basely attacking one who could not defend herself against him. Shame swept over him, cooling his anger on the instant and cutting off his tirade. He turned a frowning look in Gil's direction, sensing in her utter stillness and silence the depth of her hurt.

For a moment, he struggled to master himself, then he spoke in a voice roughened by remorse. "I did not mean it, Gil. You know I did not."

Still she said nothing, and Boromir's chagrin deepened. In all the years Gil had spent at his side, he could not remember a time when he had lashed out at her in such a way or when she had taken his flares of temper so much to heart. Was he indeed going mad from all his weeks of imprisonment, first by his chains and then by his injuries? Or had Gil forgotten what he was during his absence, lost her armour, become vulnerable in ways he had not yet learned to see? Whatever the truth of it, he had hurt the most loyal and devoted of his friends.

He set the bowl on his lap and held out his hand to her. "Forgive me, Gil. I should not have spoken so."

"You may speak as you please, my lord Steward," she said, in her flattest and emptiest voice.

"Nay, do not give me leave to abuse you." Still he held out his hand to her, waiting for her to take it and accept his apology. "Please, Gil. I am sorry."

A cold, stiff hand rested lightly on his upturned palm, and he clasped it, painfully aware of how thin and weak his own fingers were in contrast to Gil's.

"You should know better than to pay heed to my tempers," he said, quietly.

Gil drew in an audible breath, her fingers twitching slightly in his grasp, then asked in the same uncertain voice he had heard when he first awoke to find her beside him, "Why will you not sleep, my lord?"

"Stone walls and the stink of smoke bring me evil dreams." He tried to smile, but it slipped badly awry. "Voices hold the dreams at bay, and the music of the stars. The stars do not sing within these walls, so I must rely on my friends."

He felt her begin to rise from her seat. "I will fetch Master Merry to you."

"Nay." He tightened his hold on her hand, drawing her back into her chair. "Your voice is as welcome to me as Merry's. Sit with me, I pray you, and lighten the hours with your company."

"As you will, my lord."

He let go her hand and lifted his bowl again. "Very good. You sound like my squire again. Now tell me of your journey from Gondor, while I eat this most excellent porridge."

A small, resigned sigh answered him, and Gil began to talk in her dry, infinitely familiar way of her long, painful, humiliating ride. Hiding a smile behind his raised bowl, Boromir settled in to enjoy her tale.

* * *

The touch of the sun was warm and welcome on his face, just as Arwen had promised, and Boromir felt himself relax as he had not in countless days. He sat on the hilltop terrace, close by the parapet on the western side of the Hall, his chair turned to catch the full warmth of the sun as it slid down the sky to the west. Rain had pounded the fields of Rohan for many days, and the dampness of the wind told Boromir that more rain was coming, but for today, the clouds had blown away and the pale autumn sun shone brightly. 

The strain of getting from his bed to this chair had frayed Boromir's temper to the breaking point and drained his body of all its meager strength, but now that he was here, he was glad that Arwen had not yielded to his threats and left him in his stifling chamber. Borlas sat beside him, and while the child did not cough so much or so hard as before, Boromir could still hear the breath rattle in his chest. Neither boy nor man had much strength or inclination for talk, and they sat in companionable silence, wrapped in thick furs against the cold, savoring the taste of the clean wind and the open sky.

Bare feet pattered on the flagstones, heralding the arrival of the halflings. Pippin came first in a burst of energy and chatter.

"Hullo, Boromir," he said, "So they have let you out at last, I see."

"Carried me out, against my will," Boromir corrected him, smiling to take the complaint from his words. "Then left me to the mercy of impertinent halflings."

Pippin laughed. "You will be glad enough of our coming, when you see what Merry has brought you."

Merry, coming up more slowly behind Pippin, now stepped up to the parapet and set something down with the grate of metal on stone.

"What have you there, Merry?" Boromir asked.

"A gift from the lady Arwen, to drive out the cold." A moment later, Boromir felt a light touch on his arm, and he obediently drew it from beneath the furs to accept what Merry brought him. "The cup is hot. Do not drop it."

Boromir only curled his hand more firmly about the silver goblet and smiled at the marvelous scent that wafted to his nose. Mulled wine. "Oh, most noble hobbits," he said, lifting the cup in a salute before he drank, "I am glad indeed of your coming."

"There is a cup here for you, too, Borlas," Merry said. "Drink it while it's nice and hot. It will ease the tightness in your chest."

"My thanks," the boy whispered roughly.

"I saw your brother off with the King's company," Pippin remarked to Borlas. "He looked very fine in his soldier's gear, though I thought it strange that he rode with Faramir's Rangers and not with the Tower guard, when he was dressed in black and silver."

"Prince Faramir has taken him into the White Company." Borlas paused to catch his breath, then added, "He is very happy."

"Yes, he always loved Prince Faramir and must be glad to serve under his standard at last. Bergil and I are old friends, you know. We met during the dark times of the Great War."

Boromir turned his attention from this exchange, certain that Borlas would be well entertained and Pippin kept out of trouble for a little while, to find Merry. The halfling was standing at the parapet close by Boromir's chair, and Boromir guessed that he was leaning out over the stonework to peer down at the city and the fields below. He sipped his hot wine in silence for a moment, giving Merry time with his own thoughts, then he heard the hobbit sigh.

"What troubles you, Little One?" he asked.

"I was remembering the last time we stood at this parapet together." Merry turned from the view below to face him and spoke in a sad, subdued tone, "It seems a very long time ago, and yet so much the same. Are you wishing you could follow Aragorn to war, as you did the last time?"

"Wishing?" Boromir smiled faintly. "In a small, secret corner of my mind, perhaps. But it is no more than a wish, and I would not break my word to Aragorn, even were I able to sit a horse or wield a sword."

"I'm glad you do not mean to go," Merry murmured, "for I would have to go with you, and I have had my fill of war."

"That is reason enough for me to stay quietly in Rohan," Boromir said gently.

Merry said nothing, and Boromir regarded him thoughtfully with his bandaged gaze, fancying he could see the halfling's cheerful face puckered in a frown.

"It worries you, my tame acceptance of Aragorn's commands. You would have me storm and rage and chafe at my confinement, burning to ride forth to glory and prove myself upon the field of battle."

"I would be less afraid for you, if you did."

Boromir dropped his blind eyes to the cup in his hands, rolling it between his palms absently as he sought for the words to ease his friend's fears. Before he could find those words, Merry spoke again, his voice soft and edged with pain.

"You never speak of it."

"Speak of what? My captivity? Of the whips and chains, the cold and the stench, the screams of dying men? The less said of them the better, I deem."

"How did you survive it?" Merry asked in a haunted whisper.

Boromir uttered a grim laugh and retorted, "Our good Queen would have it that I am too stubborn to die." The halfling gave a doleful sniff, and Boromir dropped his caustic tone, reaching out to find his friend and crying, "My dear Merry! Do not weep for things past and done."

"I can't help it. When I think of you in that dreadful place, it all comes back to me – the coldness and horror of my dreams, only worse than before, because now the dread has a shape and a name. I do not sleep at night, for fear I'll dream again and see Uglúk and Dúrbhak and their great stewpot."

The memory of his own dream rose like a cold shadow in Boromir's mind, and he stirred uncomfortably in his chair, trying to dispel it with a jolt of pain from his leg.

Merry caught his movement and must have read his thoughts in his face, for he asked softly, "Is that what you dreamed of last night?"

"The nightmares will pass, as they did before. It needs only time," Boromir assured him, though his lurking doubt sounded plain in his own ears.

"Until they do, we'll sit together through the night hours, as we used to, and hold off each other's dreams."

"Aye." He smiled his gratitude at the halfling. "And when I am strong enough to walk the distance from my bed to this terrace, with only your shoulder for support, we will slip out at night to sit beneath the stars and listen to their song."

"Then we can both sleep properly. Speaking of which," Merry went on, shaking off his somber mood and returning to his usual light-hearted manner, "Borlas does not seem to be troubled with dreams. He is fast asleep in his chair and snoring like an old gaffer."

Boromir cocked his head to one side, listening, then he remarked, "Master Peregrin is unusually quiet, too."

"Oh, Pippin has gone off to exchange news with the doorwardens. He's become very friendly with all the household guard since we arrived." Merry broke off for a moment, his attention held by something behind Boromir, then he exclaimed, "I say, here comes Gil in a hurry!"

Boromir could now hear her familiar step approaching. "My lord!" she called, as she ran across the wide terrace, "Letters from Gondor, my lord!"

"Did you see the messenger?" Pippin cried, breathless with excitement, as he arrived on Gil's heels. "He must bring word from Aragorn and Faramir!"

"Nay," Boromir said, frowning in thought, "Aragorn could not have arrived in Minas Tirith so soon."

"From Prince Imrahil, lord." Cool, dry parchment touched the back of Boromir's hand, as Gil offered him a scroll. "It bears his seal, not the King's."

Boromir automatically took the letter and ran his fingers over the seal to assure himself that it was unbroken. He deftly broke the seal, then held it out to her again and asked, "There is but the one letter?"

"The one for you, lord, and… and one for me."

"From Imrahil?"

"Aye."

She sounded awed and more than a little nervous to be receiving letters from so exalted a person as the Prince of Dol Amroth, and it occurred to Boromir that this might very well be the first letter Gil had ever received from _anyone_. "Then go and read it," he said. "Merry can do your office this once, and read my letter."

Awe turned to outrage, and she nearly snatched the scroll from his hand. "Nay, lord, he will not!"

Striving to subdue his grin, Boromir sat back and waited for his squire to master the contents of his letter. She took her time, as always, and her voice dropped into the flat, emotionless tone that betrayed the effort it cost her to read aloud.

_'To Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Anórien._

_My most dear nephew,_

_Thank all the Valar that you are returned! I know not where you are as I write this letter, but I trust that you will come safely to Edoras and find it awaiting you, if you are not there already. In such a need, I feel the leagues between Minas Tirith and Meduseld a burden as they never were before, and I begrudge the long days that separate us. Would that I could ride to meet you and bring you word myself of what I know will give you joy! But alas, my duty to King, to land, and to that beloved liege lord who left all Gondor to my care will not allow it. So a letter must serve._

_Here then, in bare black ink strokes, is the matter. Taleris is unmasked. The traitor lies in a dungeon beneath the Citadel, awaiting the King's justice, which will be both swift and final I doubt not.'_

Gil paused, and Boromir felt her gaze upon him. He drew in a long breath, willing himself to calm, but his heart beat wildly with triumph and his limbs sang with the urge to hurl him out of his chair, to draw his sword, to carry him in a single stride to the gates of Minas Tirith that he might strike the blow that severed Taleris' life and paid him fittingly for all his treacheries. Only his weakness, and the awareness of his friends standing all round him, watching him with anxious concern, kept him from springing to his feet even now in spite of his wounds.

After a moment of expectant silence, Gil read on.

_'Thanks to Gil and her agents, a letter came into my hands that condemns him utterly. He swears he had no part in your intended murder, but he makes no denial of his other treacheries, speaks not a word in answer to my charges. He is proud and defiant still, but a week in the dungeon may humble him. We shall see what face he wears when he comes before Elessar at last._

_I know you will understand me, Boromir, when I say that I both long for and dread that day. Taleris is a foul and treacherous dog, but he is also a friend of many years and a comrade through many campaigns. My consolation is that in proving my old friend a traitor, I have likewise proven my fealty to my liege lord and, I devoutly hope, earned some measure of forgiveness from my kinsman.'_

_'When you departed, you placed upon me a twofold trust – as Steward to safeguard our people, and as your kinsman to unmask the traitor who threatened your life and your honor. Both these trusts I hold as sacred. Both, I deem, I have now fulfilled. Get you home to Minas Tirith as swiftly as may be. If the fates of War allow it, I will be here to greet you and to place the rod of Stewardship in your hands again, where it belongs._

_I remain ever your loving uncle,_

_Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth'_

Boromir heard the scrape of heavy parchment, as Gil let the scroll curl in upon itself, and he held out his hand for the letter. She laid it across his palm. He closed his fingers about it, holding in a close, protective clasp the treasured words. "It is done, then. Taleris is proved a traitor."

"And will die a traitor's death as he deserves, the filthy cur," Gil said, her voice edged with grim satisfaction.

"As he should!" Pippin declared hotly. "Taleris will get what's coming to him when Aragorn reaches Minas Tirith, and I say good riddance."

"Aye," Boromir murmured, "but I should like the chance to face him once more, to throw his treacheries in his teeth and show him how completely he has failed. I should like to stare him down and feel him squirm, one last time. It was all the pleasure his company ever afforded me."

"I'm sure you can find someone else to terrify with your inscrutable gaze," Merry said, his voice trembling on a laugh.

"But no one I despise as I do Taleris." Turning upon his squire the bandaged gaze that struck fear into the hearts of so many, he smiled and said, "What of your letter, Gil? Are you not anxious to read it?"

"Aye, lord. I cannot think why the Prince would write to me. He can have naught to say to such as I…"

"Do not stand wondering, you infernal girl, _read_ it!"

Her voice faltered. "To you, my lord?"

"Nay, not to me! 'Tis your letter. Take it away at once, where these inquisitive halflings cannot pester you and I cannot distract you with my demands, and read it in peace. I will not need you again until I am back in my room and Arwen has another meal for you to stuff down my gullet." When Gil hesitated still, he growled, "Off with you! Be gone!"

She mumbled incoherent thanks and hurried away, her footsteps fading in the direction of the Hall.

"I wonder why Imrahil did write to her?" Pippin mused. "And what was that he said about her agents bringing him the letter?"

"I expect she'll tell us all about it, in her own time," Merry said reasonably. "She's not nearly so prickly as she used to be, nor so close-mouthed. Wearing breeches seems to agree with her."

Boromir gave a disbelieving snort, and Merry laughed.

"If you ask me, it's not the breeches," Pippin said dryly, then he made a whooping noise, as if something had struck him a hard blow to the ribs, and he abruptly changed the subject. "Your wine has gone cold, Boromir, and you're looking decidedly peaked. You need food. The woman who rules Éomer's kitchens is a particular friend of mine, so I'm sure I can wheedle a sustaining bite or two out of her. Enough for all of us."

With that, he strolled off, whistling, leaving Boromir alone with Merry and the sleeping Borlas. Merry perched on the edge of Boromir's footstool, being careful not to jar his injured leg, and together they listened to the boy's heavy breathing, content to rest quietly in each other's company. How much time passed Boromir did not try to count. He was exhausted from the strains and excitement of the day, left chill and empty by the ebbing of his great tide of emotion upon hearing the letter, and he briefly wished that he was back in his bed chamber – smoking fire, stone walls and all.

"How do you feel, Boromir?" Merry asked, breaking the long quiet.

"I hardly know. I am too weary to take it all in, and what happens in far off Gondor seems unreal to me here, on this windy hilltop."

A smile crept into Merry's voice as he replied, "It will sink in soon enough, and then it will be all that Gil and I can manage to keep you from leaping into the saddle and riding off to Minas Tirith as fast as Fedranth can carry you."

"Mayhap you are right. I count on you to curb my wilder impulses."

"This news ought to speed your healing, at least."

"Aye." Boromir smiled at him and held out his hand. When Merry placed his small hand in Boromir's much larger one, their fingers clasped warmly, saying much of friendship and deep loyalty that they did not need to speak aloud. "And ease my sleep."

"Maybe we can both sleep easier now," Merry said quietly.

* * *

Aragorn sat in his kingly chair, his hands resting upon its carven arms, his eyes fixed on the figure standing in chains before him. The clear light of an autumn morning spilled through the tall windows of the tower room, setting the gems and gold embroidery on the King's garments afire and throwing the filthy, ragged state of the prisoner's clothing into sharp relief. The faces of both were impassive, closed, with shuttered eyes that gave no hint of their thoughts, but where Aragorn's was washed clean of its travel stains and smoothed by a night of rest, Taleris' was as lined, dirty and careworn as his robe, every one of the nights he had spent in Minas Tirith's darkest dungeon stamped roughly upon his visage. 

The great and noble hearts gathered now to witness Aragorn's judgment upon Taleris were of a kind easily moved to pity. Faramir, who sat on the King's right hand, was revered through all Gondor as the most just and merciful of Men. Legolas and Gimli, standing in the shadows by the cold hearth, were neither cruel nor vengeful, but generous in all things. And Imrahil, with his long years of friendship for the prisoner, might well have softened to Taleris now. The sight of so much wretchedness, in any other creature, would indeed have moved them all, but Taleris had left no room in them for aught but anger. His haughty silence and arrogance before the King he had wronged so deeply hardened their hearts still further against his wan and twisted face, his heavy chains.

In the lengthening silence, a many-legged creature, startled by the bright sunlight, crawled from Taleris' beard and scuttled into the open neck of his surcote. He twitched uncomfortably but refused to humble himself by lifting his manacled hands to scrabble at it. Aragorn watched the thing burrow into the crushed and fouled velvet with interest, then he raised his eyes once more to the other man's face.

"Have you no greeting to offer your King, Lord Taleris?" he asked, in a voice as frozen and unyielding as the peak of Caradhras.

Taleris struggled with himself, clearly undecided whether or not to dignify the King's presence with his notice, but outrage subdued pride in the end and he grated, "I owe you no such courtesy. You call me by my noble title, but you treat me like the basest villain! Hurling me into an eyeless pit to gnaw stale crusts and sleep with vermin!" He spat onto the floor at Imrahil's feet. "The Gondor I served would not use her lords thus."

"Beware, Taleris," Imrahil growled. "Do not try the King's patience too far."

Aragorn quieted him with a raised hand, never taking his eyes from the prisoner's face. "A traitor is a traitor, be he Prince or peasant. You have come by your deserts."

Taleris assumed his loftiest stance and proclaimed, loudly, "I am no traitor."

Aragorn's mouth twitched in something that was not a smile. Holding out his hand to Imrahil, he said levelly, "The letter."

Imrahil placed a small, slender roll of parchment in Aragorn's hand. The King turned it to show Taleris the broken seal of blue wax upon it and said, still with no trace of emotion in his voice, "Your own words give you the lie. Shall I read them out to you? Have you forgotten what you set down with your own hand?"

The prisoner clamped his lips shut, summoning his pride once more to armor him against the King's piercing regard, and refusing to meet his eyes.

"Who was meant to receive this letter?" Aragorn asked. When Taleris refused to answer, he tried again. "What is the name of your confederate among the Haradrim?" Still he received no answer.

Setting aside the scroll, Aragorn gave weary sigh and let his gaze drop from Taleris' obdurate face. "You are a fool, as well as a traitor, I see. Your death is certain, my lord, but still there is time to mend some of what you have maimed and earn yourself better than a traitor's end. What say you? Will you die in shame to protect the enemies of your own people? Murderers, thieves, marauders?"

"They are not!" Taleris blurted out, then bit his lip in anger at his own weakness.

"Not murderers and thieves? Are they not, even now, killing Men of Gondor so they might steal their lands and their homes?"

"Their people are starving," the old lord muttered. "They seek land fit for growing the crops to feed them. You would do no less, were your children weeping with hunger and dying upon the barren sands."

"So they take at the sword's point what they might have had for the asking, had they treated with me as an ally. Nay, I will not pity their weeping children, Taleris, for they have not pitied ours. Nor will I believe that you aided the Haradrim out of pity or to right a wrong. What were you paid for your services? What had the starving Men of Harad to offer the King's deputy that would tempt him to treachery? Was it gold?"

Taleris let his gaze slide away from Aragorn's to roam the circle of faces turned upon him. He licked his lips nervously but said nothing. After a long moment, Faramir answered for him.

"Vengeance, I deem. Long has he plotted to rob my brother of his office and dignities, in payment for imagined wrongs against our father. And you, Elessar, were meant to suffer for your loyalty to him, and for claiming the crown that was yours by right of blood."

"Is that it, Taleris? Were you promised Boromir's blood and my crown?"

"I raised no hand against you or your Steward," Taleris snarled, his fragile composure rapidly crumbling. "You cannot take my head, because a blind fool lost himself in the wilderness, and his harlot, that beggar's by-blow who calls herself a squire, points her claw at me and screams that I am to blame!"

"Peace, Taleris," Aragorn said, warningly. "This has naught to do with Gil, or with Boromir's capture by the Orcs."

"Naught to do! _Naught to do!_" He threw back his head and uttered a bark of laughter. "What cares King Elessar for aught but his precious Steward? He holds all Gondor as naught beside the love of that slinking cur, that blind bastard…"

"Enough!" Imrahil crossed to Taleris in a single stride, whipping out his dagger and pressing it up hard beneath the prisoner's chin. "Speak another word about my kinsman, and I will cut your lying throat!"

Taleris' eyes rolled wildly to where Imrahil's face hovered so close to his own, and a ghastly smile stretched his lips. "Aye, that is the way to keep your head, my friend. Good, good! But do not forget the harlot, for 'tis she who holds the dog's leash! Speak sweetly of her, too, if you would escape his bite!"

"Is he mad?" Gimli demanded of Aragorn, "or does he counterfeit to stay your justice?"

"Mad, I think," Faramir said, heavily.

"Nay, only desperate," Aragorn retorted. "He sees his own death approaching and must strike out at us, squirt his venom in our ears, while he still can."

Taleris looked to the King, his head forced up by the pressure of Imrahil's knife, his breath hissing through his bared teeth. Some measure of rationality crept back into his eyes, as Aragorn continued,

"This is the first time that you have spoken the truth to me, is it not, Taleris?"

The prisoner took a rasping breath and tried to throw off Imrahil's hands, uttering a wordless growl.

"Your words sicken me, but I cannot condemn you for speaking them, when I have waited so long to hear the truth from your lips."

"You… you do not condemn me?" He went suddenly limp in Imrahil's grasp, as the Prince took his knife away, and his voice cracked with disbelief. "I may yet live?"

"Nay. Your life is forfeit." A shudder went through Taleris' body, and his eyes dropped to the floor, avoiding Aragorn's gaze. "But you will not die for your hatred of Boromir, or for the foul slanders you heap upon him and his faithful squire."

Staring at Taleris' bent, grey head with saddened eyes, he went on, "You believe that I care for naught but my Steward's love, and you blame his misfortunes for your approaching death, but you are wrong. I know you will not believe it; you will die in bitterness, convinced that Boromir is to blame, and lay yet another crime at his door as you quit the circles of this world. But I say to you now that it is your betrayal of Gondor that costs you your life, not your hatred of Gondor's Steward. And for that reason, I offer you still the chance to mend some of the damage you have done and earn a measure of mercy in return."

"Mercy?"

"An honorable death, the preservation of your estates and your family. That is all I have to offer you."

A long silence answered his words, broken when Taleris asked in a low, despairing tone, "What must I do?"

"Answer my questions."

The prisoner took a deep, sobbing breath and blew it out on a sigh that seemed to come from his very boots. "Ask what you will."

"Who was meant to receive this letter?"

"I do not know his right name. He went by Gabril, and he concealed himself in the City as a carter, but he is a great chieftain among the Haradrim, I deem."

"He is not the man you met in the tavern to give the letter? The man we have in the dungeons even now?"

"Nay. He went south when the news of Boromir's capture by the Orcs came to us. The man you hold is a messenger only."

"What other letters have you written?"

"None but what you have." Lifting his head as if it were too heavy for his neck, he nodded toward the scroll that lay on the table before Aragorn. "That, and the one I brought from Ethir Anduin when I returned to the City in the spring."

"You destroyed Ciryon's original letter."

"Aye." His head dropped again.

"What of the second letter Ciryon sent? The one that arrived after I had departed on my Progress?"

"I destroyed it."

"And the third?"

"That I could not destroy. The girl saw it in my hands and spoke with the messenger who brought it. I knew she would tell Boromir of it, so I gave it to him."

"That was when you decided to slay him."

"I did not." It was a measure of how far Taleris had fallen that he showed no flash of anger or of defiance at Aragorn's words. He spoke in the same beaten tone in which he had answered every question, without lifting his eyes from the floor. "Gabril hatched that plot, thinking to sap the strength of Gondor's soldiers with the fall of their beloved Captain. I told him he was a fool, that Boromir's death would only hasten your return and his doom. He… called me a coward and spat on my counsel."

"You did not warn Boromir of the threat to his life?"

"I could not." He hesitated for a moment, then added, gruffly, "I _would_ not. For I hate him, and I would not speak a word to save him from death. That is the truth, my lord King. All the truth and all my guilt. Do with me what you will."

Aragorn sat for a very long time in silence, staring at Taleris' bent head, his eyes hooded and his face an unreadable mask. No one in the roomed dared move and break the stillness save Taleris himself, who lifted a hand to scratch at the vermin on his skin. The grating of his chains when he lifted his hands sounded unnaturally loud, but he seemed not to notice.

At last Aragorn stirred, shifting forward in his chair to place his hand on the map that covered the table before him. "In three days' time, I sail for Ethir Anduin with the armies of Minas Tirith and Anórien. You will sail with me, my lord."

Taleris looked up, startled.

"I want this Gabril, and you will find him for me. That is your task. When it is done, you will have won your measure of mercy."

"A nobleman's death?" Taleris rasped out, his throat working painfully.

Aragorn nodded.

"For Gabril's head."

"For him, and for your obedience."

The old man stared into his King's eyes reading the promise in them, then he bent his head in an awkward bow. "My lord King."

Flicking a glance at Imrahil, Aragorn said, "Get him a bath and fresh garments. He may sleep in his own chambers, with a suitable guard."

Imrahil bowed. "And the chains, my lord?"

Aragorn's face hardened. "He wears them."

With another bow, Imrahil clasped Taleris' arm and drew him toward the door. Taleris shuffled along with him, looking neither left nor right, his shoulders sagging with a weariness that had naught to do with the chains he wore.

When the door had shut behind them, Aragorn sank back in his great chair and put a hand up to cover his eyes. In that moment, he looked as broken and exhausted as his prisoner.

"My lord?" Faramir said, pushing a cup of wine toward him.

Aragorn dropped his hand and took the wine, drinking deeply.

"If we are to depart in three days' time…" Faramir began, but a glance from Aragorn silenced him.

"I go, Faramir, and those of my friends who would fight beside me again." He looked to where Gimli and Legolas stood, catching their solemn nods. "You must remain in Minas Tirith."

Hurt and disbelief flooded the Prince's face for a moment, then he mastered himself and said, with admirable calm, "Imrahil is not to remain as Steward in Boromir's place?"

"Imrahil has done his duty and held himself aloof when war threatened his own borders. Now his people fight under Ciryon's banner, and he longs to fight with them. I cannot deny him that, when he has done me such service."

"Nay." Faramir's shoulders drooped fractionally. "You cannot."

Laying a hand on his friend's arm, Aragorn said quietly, "You do not love war, Faramir,"

"But I love Gondor and Gondor's King. I would draw my sword with yours, Elessar, and defend what we love."

"You will do me better service to stay here, in the Steward's chair, and rule Gondor in my stead until I return. From here, you can direct your own troops in South Ithilien, while safeguarding the northern marches of our realm." He smiled, his grey eyes shining with sudden warmth. "And Minas Tirith is much closer to Rohan than is Ethir Anduin."

Faramir's eyes widened. "Rohan?"

"Close enough to allow for visits, when your duties are light."

A wide smile lit his face. "I thank you, Elessar. Gladly will I sit in the Steward's chair and hold it against my brother's return."

Aragorn pushed himself forward in his chair, his eyes going to the map spread on the table before him, once more filled with the purpose and strength that his friends knew so well. "Then let us to work. We have a war to win."

* * *

"'Tis only a step, my lord," Arwen chided. 

One more step. So she said now, but when he had taken that step, there would be another, and then another, and his exhausted limbs cried aloud in protest at this abuse. Gritting his teeth against a sour rejoinder that he could not spare the breath to utter, Boromir merely grunted and adjusted his grip on the staff he clutched in his right hand. His palm, slick with sweat, slipped on the polished wood, and he had a brief, hideous vision of his leg buckling as his crutch slithered from his hand. The vivid memory of tearing flesh and tortured muscle struck him, and Orcish laughter rang in his ears, sapping the last of his strength.

"Trust me. I will not let you fall." Arwen's soft words banished the harsher voices in his head and told him that his Queen had, once again, read his thoughts with unsettling ease. She reached up to clasp his left hand, where it rested on her shoulder.

Leaning most of his weight on Arwen's deceptively slender shoulders, Boromir lifted his sound foot from the floor and hazarded a step. As he dragged his injured leg forward, he growled, "The leg will hold. I know it will. 'Tis the rest of my body that betrays me. Ye gods!" He halted, swaying, and let go of Arwen's shoulder to clutch at his brow. "My head reels so that I cannot find the floor, and my limbs are weak as water."

"You have been too long abed. Come, lean on me." She pulled his arm across her shoulders once more and slipped an arm about his waist to steady him. "I have set a chair beneath the window, and when you are safely in it, I will open the shutters. It rains again today, so you cannot venture out of doors, but you may sit in the wintry blast from the window until you have cleansed the foulness of smoke and stone from your lungs and are rested enough to walk back to your bed."

Bolstered by the promise of the taste of sweet, clean air, Boromir once more forced his limbs to move. He had spoken the truth when he said that he knew his leg would hold. It had borne his weight often enough in the Orc den and would not fail him now, he was certain. But his long weeks of imprisonment and his longer illness had left him in a pitiable state – his muscles trembling and his heart laboring within the fragile cage of his ribs – so that his tiny prison of a room seemed, in his extremity, longer than Éomer King's great hall. It took every ounce of pride and determination he possessed to cross it, and he felt as though he had been locked in mortal combat for countless hours when he heard Arwen say,

"One step more."

A gasping laugh was torn from his throat. "So you said half a hundred steps ago!"

Even as he spoke, he stumbled into the chair and nearly pitched over it. Dropping his staff, he reached for the chair's arms and, helped by Arwen, sank gratefully into it.

"You should not doubt me so, my lord," the Queen chided.

"Never again. And never again will I move from this spot." He could feel the chill of the stone wall to his left, and he let himself fall sideways against it, propping his shoulders and head against its welcome solidity. "I will sleep here tonight. I have had less comfortable beds."

"When you are weary enough, you will think better of it, I deem."

"You are as bad as Gil…ah!" He broke off with a cry of pain, as Arwen lifted his injured leg to rest on a footstool. Then he groaned in relief and sagged more heavily against the wall, muttering, "As bad as Gil, always certain that you know what I want, paying no heed to what I say."

"Why should we pay heed to arrant foolishness?"

Boromir reflected bitterly that the Queen sounded far too much like his squire for comfort, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Arwen had wrapped him closely in a heavy fur and was now throwing open the wooden shutters that covered the window. Turning eagerly toward the sound, Boromir felt a rush of cold, wet, rain-scented wind against his face, and he smiled in genuine delight. He drew in a deep, glad breath and let it out on a sigh, banishing pain, exhaustion, haunting dreams and demons of memory with the lingering taste of smoke.

With a rustle of light fabric, Arwen sat down upon the edge of his footstool and leaned close to speak in her softest, warmest tone. "It eases my heart to see you smile, Boromir."

He turned to her, startled, a question in his face.

"I take no pleasure in tormenting you."

"Your company is never a torment, lady."

She laughed, and for a moment, Boromir fancied that he sat on a terrace in Imladris, with an Elvish rain falling on leaves of silver in the valley below. "Now I know how to tame your temper. A breath of fresh air, and you are all courtesy."

He tried to smile in return, but chagrin made him shift uncomfortably and turn away from her keen gaze. "I am sorry for my churlishness. I would not have you think I am ungrateful, or that I do not know why you suffer with my fits and tempers."

"Why?"

"For Aragorn's sake. Because he asked it of you."

"Aye, but had he not asked, still I would brave your rages to aid in your healing." She rested a light hand on Boromir's knee, taking care not to touch the painful swelling about his wound. "Are we not friends in our own right, Boromir?"

"I hope so, lady."

"Then believe that my care of you is as much for friendship's sake as for love of my lord."

This time, Boromir's smile came easily, and he made no attempt to avoid the touch of her gaze. "Believe that I am grateful, even when I forget the courtesy due my friend."

"I do."

Satisfied, Boromir let his head sink back against the wall and the tension drain from his battered body. As the winter wind off the plains soothed him, his mind wandered from his stone prison on the hilltop toward the distant city where his heart dwelt and his King labored without his Steward to support him. His hand strayed unconsciously to the gem that hung at his breast, and he fingered it, as if its touch bound him to Aragorn and gave him some small part in the mighty deeds to come.

Arwen saw the gem in his hand and understood at once where his thoughts had flown. "Think you he has reached the White City by now?"

"Aye." Boromir paused, conjuring a vision he had never seen with his eyes but had long treasured in his imagination. "Perhaps he is, even now, seated in his study behind the great table, with Faramir at his side, tallying lists, signing dispatches, marshalling his captains, juggling the thousand bits of parchment, steel and flesh that make up an army on the march. Readying for war."

"I look daily for a messenger from Gondor, bringing word from my lord, though I know it cannot come so soon," Arwen murmured wistfully.

"He will not forget us. The messenger will come." Holding up the Star so that it dangled by its chain between them, he added with a smile, "I have his promise."

"The Star of the Dúnedain," she breathed, echoes of deep memory and great wonder in her voice. "'Tis a mighty gift."

"More than you, or even Aragorn himself, might guess. It has given me hope in the midst of despair and lighted my very darkest paths."

"Hope was ever Aragorn's gift."

"Estel he is called," Boromir closed his hand tightly about the gem, clasping it to his breast, "which is Hope."

"You speak the Elvish tongue?"

"Naught but the few words my brother has pounded into my head," he said ruefully, wishing now, for this lady's sake, that he had listened more closely to Faramir's teachings.

"Know you the word for star?"

Boromir thought for a moment, recalling the names and legends told him in his youth, certain that he had heard the Elvish word for star and ought to remember it, but it eluded him.

Before he could answer, Arwen rose to her feet and moved around his chair toward the door. Pausing beside him, she laid a hand on his shoulder, bent close and murmured, "It is _gil_."

Boromir sat in startled silence as the Queen walked to the door and opened it. Halting on the threshold, she turned back to add, "Aragorn spoke true when he said that you could summon the stars at will, for you have one always about you."

Then Arwen was gone, and Boromir was left alone to ponder her words. He tried to fathom his Queen's purpose in telling him the meaning of Gil's name, but he could not focus on this question for long. His thoughts kept turning to Gil herself, to the star that had walked at his side through his long darkness, lighting his steps and warming his heart with her steadfast love. For Gil did love him; he knew this, though he had not examined it before or considered the shape that love took. It had not mattered to him, so long as she was beside him. Of the three friends he valued most in this world – Aragorn, Merry and Gil – she was the one most with him, most necessary to his comfort. He thought and spoke least of her, not because she was least among them, but because she was always at his side and need never be missed or regretted. And the one time he had left her behind, riding off into the world without her, a light had gone out for him. The light of his constant star.

For an uncounted time, Boromir sat alone at his window, holding the Star of the Dúnedain in his hand, waiting for night to fall and the stars of the heavens to begin their song, and wondering how he could have been so blind.

* * *

Night lay thickly over the vale of Anduin. Shreds of cloud blew fitfully across the moon, shrouding her light and casting the moving waters into shadow, only to blow away again and leave her shining silver above the huddled tents and brooding fortresses that lined the River's banks. On the eastern shore, stretched in a ragged line from Poros to the head of the Ethir Anduin, were the garrisons built by Ciryon's troops to hold back the Haradrim. Torches burned atop ramparts of wood, and armored men patrolled the walls, keeping tireless watch on the dim, featureless lands stretching endlessly to the east.

On the western shore, the Men of Gondor camped beneath their many banners. Soldiers from Lossarnach, Lebennin and Ithilien, whose lands lay along the River. Still more from farther west, summoned to fight in aid of their neighbors and to protect their own lands from invasion: Dor-en-Ernil, Belfelas, Lamedon, and the Knights of Dol Amroth, together with the lesser kingdoms and fiefdoms under their sway. The men slept in tents or pavilions, in cots made of wood and turf, clustered around fires where guards warmed their hands and stared eastward toward their unseen enemy.

In the very darkest hour of the night, when men slept without dreams, the peace was rudely shattered. A garrison fort, near the center of the defenders' line, erupted in flame as burning arrows shot over the walls and hoards of southrons in soot-darkened armor poured after them. Weapons clashed, men screamed in rage and pain, and the wooden palisade, soaked with oil by the wily Haradrim, threw flames hundreds of feet into the sky.

This was a long-awaited signal. At the sight of those towering flames, all along the eastern bank of Anduin the Haradrim flung themselves upon the forts and slew the soldiers of Ethir Anduin.

Across the River, men awoke suddenly to the familiar clash of arms in the distance. Horns blew a wild alarm, and soldiers reached blindly for their weapons, stumbling out of their tents to stand, amazed, their faces turned in horror to the false-dawn that blazed in the east. Down to the shore they streamed, still carrying swords and lances in the vain hope of lending some aid to the doomed garrisons on the far bank, and there they halted, thwarted by the wide expanse of swiftly-moving water. Some waded into the shallows, brandishing their weapons, peering fruitlessly into the darkness that shrouded the river.

For an agonizing time, naught moved upon the water. The soldiers who had tumbled from their beds without boots or cloaks were shivering with the cold, and those who had ventured into the water had clambered back onto the shore to join their comrades, when an archer among the men of Lamedon, toward the northern end of the line, sent up a cry.

"Boats! Boats upon the water!"

A howl from the far shore announced that the Haradrim had seen the boats as well, and a storm of arrows hissed over the water. Men plunged into the shallows, some firing arrows uselessly at the enemy on the far bank, while others struck out for the approaching boats. Soon others, whose eyes were not as sharp as the archer's, could see the first boats struggling against the currents of Anduin the Great to reach safety.

They came in ragged groups, huddling together for comfort if not for safety, fleeing in whatever craft they had managed to find in the retreat from the burning forts. Wounded, exhausted, hollow-eyed men pulled at the oars with a strength born of desperation, while those too sorely injured to help lay moaning and bleeding between their feet, and they cried out in relief when they saw the hands of friends reaching out of the night to tow them ashore.

As the sun rose at last in a lowering haze of smoke and fume, a messenger on a lathered, foundering horse clattered into the courtyard of Ciryon's great tower. Ciryon himself greeted the man as he slid from the saddle and took the message tube from his hand, breaking the seal without bothering to withdraw into the tower.

The red morning light stained the paper in his hands as if with blood, the blood of men slain in the night by a foul and treacherous enemy. A fitting light by which to read the news that his garrisons were destroyed, his men slaughtered and the last defense of his lands gone. Only Anduin now stood between the Haradrim and the sweet fields of Gondor.

Rolling the parchment loosely in his fist, he turned to his Captain-General and said, "War is upon us, Beryan, my friend."

"Will the King come, think you?"

Ciryon shrugged and smiled wearily. "I pray he does, but with or without him, the Haradrim will come. War is upon us."

Turning for the tower, Ciryon draped an arm about his friend's shoulders and walked with him up the broad steps to the wide, oaken door. He walked like a man with a great burden upon him, but he did not falter. The enemy was at his very gates, and he had a war to win.

**_To be continued… _**


	15. Of War and Healing

**Chapter 15: **_**Of War and Healing**_

From the battlements of Ciryon's great watchtower, Aragorn could see league upon league in every direction. To the east spread South Gondor. It's fallow fields could show a shabby, unkempt green in springtime, but now at the onset of winter, all was drear and brown. To the south, just beyond the Tower keep and the town that sprawled around it, Anduin the Great widened and broke, throwing an arm to the west. A busy wharf lined this western channel, crowded with ships of every size and men intent upon their lord's business. Westward stretched the sweet, rich fields of Lebennin, to the distant highlands of Dor-en-Ernil and the Bay of Belfalas. Northward, Anduin wound like a ribbon of grey flecked with silver in the sunlight, beyond the reach of even so keen an eye as that of Gondor's King, until it vanished into the shadows beneath the feet of Ered Nimrais. Even the sky above his head seemed wider and clearer and more far-reaching from this vantage point.

Everywhere that Aragorn looked he saw the rumor and the wounds of war. At the wharf to the south rode the ships that had carried the King's armies from Minas Tirith, while the armies themselves marched in flashing ranks about the feet of the tower. The winter-dry fields to the west were marked with great, ugly tracks like scars, where baggage trains and marching men had torn the earth, while all along the shore of the Great River Gondor's armies camped, their banners brave against the dun of field and sand. Smoke hung over the water in a pall, still rising sluggishly from the heaps of smoldering timber that had once been garrison forts, now turned to funeral pyres. It cloaked much of the eastern shore, staining the pale autumn sky and hiding the movements of the Haradrim from the King's eyes.

Aragorn stood long at the parapet, gazing in every direction, but turning most often to the east and the threat of the Haradrim lurking beneath the veil of smoke. Ciryon stood close beside him but did not speak, unwilling to disturb his king's thoughts. At length, Aragorn turned his back on the sight of his wounded and embattled fiefs and gestured for Ciryon to follow him down from the rooftop.

They descended a flight of stone steps and found themselves in a large, square chamber, furnished for the comfort of a lord but now serving as a command center. The rich carpet was stained with wax from many candles and with mud from many boots, the table was strewn with maps, and the cold hearth was piled with parchment and message pouches. Ciryon's war banners stood rolled and cased in one corner, awaiting the day when he unfurled them in battle, while his sword, helm and shield hung on the wall above them.

Seated at one end of the table, his wrists still weighted with chains and a sullen glower upon his face, was Lord Taleris. Imrahil bent over the table, studying the largest map but keeping one hand on his sword hilt as a silent warning to his prisoner. As Aragorn and Ciryon came down the stairs, both men looked up to follow the King's progress. Imrahil's grey eyes burned with eagerness, while Taleris' were dark and distrustful. Aragorn strode over to the table and turned the great map about to face him.

As he had on the rooftop, he fell into deep thought, leaving his captains waiting upon his pleasure, and when he finally spoke, it was more to himself than to them.

"Where will they come?" His eyes traced the line of Anduin painted on the hide map. "Where will the blow fall first?"

"Mayhap they will not come at all," Ciryon ventured. "They have fortified positions, easily defensible. Were I the chieftain of the Haradrim, I might well stay upon the eastern bank and wait for Gondor's armies to bring the battle to me."

"They cannot," Aragorn stated, without lifting his eyes from the map. "The fields of South Gondor have not been tilled or husbanded in many long years. There are no stores of food, and what might be gleaned from the wild will be gone ere winter comes in earnest."

"My men abandoned stores of food when they fled the forts."

"Not enough to feed the armies of Harad through the winter, I deem."

"Nay. For a month, at most, if they tighten their belts."

"They will cross the River, then, and soon," Imrahil said.

"Aye. For all their purpose in this was to take the southern parts of Lebennin for themselves."

The Prince shook his head. "'Tis madness. How could they hope to hold one part of your lands against all Gondor?"

Aragorn's eyes slid to the man sitting, chained, at the end of the table. "It seems they hoped to control the coastline and the Ethir with their fleets, bringing great numbers of their people here by ship to swell their armies and colonize the land. With enough warriors on land and ships at sea, they might force us to treat with them. It was a fool's hope, but desperate men are often foolish."

"Their fleets will never reach the Mouths of Anduin," Imrahil said with a grim smile. "My swan ships are but a small part of the force gathered in the Bay of Belfalas against them."

"And my ships sail with the tide to join your fleet," Aragorn murmured, his eyes on the map once more and his thoughts turning away from these matters that had long since been decided. All his care now was turned upon divining the plans of the enemy and choosing the place where the Men of Harad would cross the River.

"Beregond holds the Crossings of Poros and the meeting of the two rivers," he murmured, thinking aloud once more. "They cannot cross north of Poros. Nor can they cross the delta, without becoming mired in its many channels. Your fisherfolk guard those waterways, do they not?" he asked Ciryon, with a glance from beneath his frowning brows.

"Aye. No Southron boat will cross Ethir Anduin."

"Then it is between the Tower keep and Poros that they must come."

"They will attack the Tower, surely," Imrahil opined.

"The keep and the wharf will be their ultimate goal, for only by taking Ciryon's stronghold can they capture him and claim his lands, but that will be only one arm of their attack, I deem." He ran a finger down the map, following the line of Anduin south from the place where the River Poros flowed into it. "Poros is fortified and further strengthened with a thousand men-at-arms from my force. South of Poros, the western bank is high and rocky, difficult to scale in numbers."

"Aye, but still there is a narrow strip of beach along the water's edge. When the spring floods come, the water will drown it, but at this season, a small craft could land anywhere along this stretch of the River." Ciryon's finger followed Aragorn's, then paused at a spot some ten leagues north of the Tower, where a symbol inked on the worn hide indicated fortifications. "Here, the river forms a cove, and the strip of sand becomes a sizable landing. A ravine cuts through the bluff, where a stream has worn it away. I have blocked the head of the ravine and thrown breastworks across it at the top of the bank. A company of archers from Morthond man the fortifications, and a larger force with spears and swords camps behind. North and south of this place, men patrol the upper banks, but in no great numbers. Our hope is in denying them the beach and ravine."

"Is there moorage to the south of the cove?"

"Not for two leagues, at the least. The bulk of our armies are camped to the south, where the river's banks sink down, until a man might step from boat to shore without wetting his feet."

Aragorn fell once more into a brown study, leaving his companions to wait in anxious silence. At last, he tapped the drawn fortification with a fingertip and said, his voice more certain than his heart, "This is where they will come."

"They cannot land an army on that little beach!" Imrahil protested. "A small diversionary force, mayhap, but not a concerted attack! It must be on the keep that the blow will fall."

"One blow, certainly, but not the first or the most vital. If the Haradrim can take this fortification, they open a way through our defenses. An army might land, crossing the River in small craft, debarking in handfuls along the northward shore, then march down to the cove and gain the upper bank. Then we have enemies on two fronts, threatening to crush us between them, as they assail the wharf and keep to the south and march down upon us from the north."

He tapped the small cove again, more decisively. "This is where the Haradrim will think to strike us hardest."

"I will send men north at once to strengthen the garrison!" Ciryon said.

"Not openly, and do not place them on the fortifications. We do not want to alert the enemy that we have divined his plans, thus forcing him to change them and likely surprise us. My counsel is that we leave the garrison unchanged but march a great force of men-at-arms north under cover of night. We will position them to cut off the march of the Haradrim south."

"You mean to draw the Southrons across the River into a trap," Imrahil said.

"Aye, for I want all their armies committed to the attack and none left on the eastern shore to harass us later."

Ciryon said, eagerly, "We can hide a small troop of men with pikes or axes in the thickets, along the shore north of the landing. Once the Southrons have taken the fortifications above, these men can hole the boats, thus cutting off their retreat."

"Good. Very good."

"If the Haradrim attack both the keep to the south and the beach to the north, we must needs split our armies to meet both threats," Imrahil mused, his eyes on the map.

"We have men enough."

"Aye, but where will the King fight?" He raised his eyes to Aragorn's face, and they gleamed with a martial light. "The banner of King Elessar Telcontar will rally the soldiers of Gondor and put strength into their flagging arms, but by the same token, it will draw the fiercest fighting and the most terrible of Harad's champions. On which front will it fly, my lord?"

Aragorn smiled. "On both." He tapped the square on the map that indicated the keep, surrounded by symbols of many colors for all the lords and armies gathered there. "My household guard and the companies that sailed from Minas Tirith with me will remain here, and they will carry the jeweled banner of my kingship into battle at their head. But the King himself will ride north to seal the trap."

Imrahil's smile now matched his lord's. "And the King himself will be banner enough to make valiant the hearts of our soldiery."

"So I deem." Turning to Lord Taleris, who had listened to all of this in brooding silence, Aragorn said, "What say you, my lord? Will the Haradrim fall into our trap?"

"I know not," the prisoner growled, "but if they do, Gabril will lead the men assaulting the beach and fortifications. His pride will not accept less than to win the day with the might of his own arm."

"That is as I hoped. You will come with us, then, so you may confirm his capture or death."

Taleris bowed his head.

"By your leave, my lord King, I would remain with my men at the keep and order its defense," Ciryon said.

"That is where you can best serve both Gondor and Gondor's King. I gladly place the weal of your land and people in your hands, and place my own army under your command."

Ciryon bowed deeply.

"As for my lord Prince," Aragorn said, turning to Imrahil, "I give him leave to choose where he will wield his sword. Long have you sat idle in Minas Tirith, chafing at the duty that held you there while your own lands are threatened by a fearsome enemy. No more, my friend. The enemy comes. Where would you meet him?"

"At your side, my king," Imrahil answered without hesitation.

"Some, at least, of the Knights of Dol Amroth must remain here to bait the trap."

"Those I leave gladly under Ciryon's command and ask only a company of the most valiant to ride with me."

"So be it." Aragorn straightened up and regarded the others, eyes alight. "We ride at nightfall and have much to do ere the sun sets. First, I must see to the disposition of my own armies and the making of my camp. Ciryon, have you scribes and errand riders handy?"

"In plenty, my lord."

"Send them to my pavilion and get your horses saddled. We have no time to waste. Come."

With that, he led them from the chamber and down the long stone stairway, past a number of rooms full of bustling men, to the main hall and the courtyard beyond. Legolas and Gimli awaited him there, together with the captain of his guard and a number of lords who had sailed south with him from Minas Tirith.

Legolas held Roheryn's reins; he offered them to Aragorn. "Whither away, my king?"

"To victory, my friend. But first, to the King's encampment, where I must write many letters and make many lists."

The Elf gave a musical laugh. "'Tis well, then, that Boromir is not with us! He cannot abide the making of lists!"

"Aye." Aragorn's smile turned wistful for a moment, then righted itself. "He is better where he is." The King leapt into the saddle, wheeled his mount and rode from the keep, followed by Elf, Dwarf, Prince and a host of Men.

*** *** ***

Merry sat at a small table, pulled up close to the hearth for warmth, working his way through a generous supper of roast mutton. Very good mutton, he thought, munching happily, though not up to the standard of his table at Crickhollow. No grazing in all Middle-earth could rival the sweet fields of the Westfarthing, and none of the Big People had the knack of cooking the meat to crisp up the fat just so. But still, a very respectable meal, even for a Hobbit.

He had just taken another large bite, when he heard a knock at the door. He chewed and swallowed quickly, washing the meat down with a gulp of ale, and was spluttering slightly when he called out to his visitor, "Come in!"

The door opened, and Gil slipped into the room. "The Steward has finished his supper, Master _Perian_," she said, impossibly stiff as always. "You can go to him when you like."

"Already?" He looked ruefully down at his own loaded plate, then up at Gil. "I've only just begun. He must have eaten very quickly, or… Did he throw it at your head?"

"Nay. He ate it all, without protest. Almost without pause."

The frown she wore made Merry raise his eyebrows at her. "That ought to make you happy. Why do you look so worried?"

"It was mutton."

Merry paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, his jaw sagging open in surprise. "Mutton? Boromir ate _mutton?_"

Gil nodded lugubriously.

"How did you manage that?"

"I did not manage it. I put the tray in front of him, and he ate it."

Merry whistled, then took another bite of his own supper and munched it while Gil watched him darkly, as if offended by his hearty appetite in the face of such dire trouble.

"Well," Merry offered, between bites, "reckless as it was of you to serve Boromir mutton for his supper, I think it's a good sign that he was willing to eat it with so little fuss."

"I had rather he had flung it in my face."

"So I see." Merry pushed aside his plate, wiped his fingers on his napkin before folding them in his lap, and turned his full attention on Gil. "The question is, why? I should think you'd be relieved that Boromir is finally mellowing a bit."

Gil sank down on the hearth, allowing her to face Merry directly. "'Tis not mellowing, but surrender. He has lost the will or the strength to fight even the smallest battle." The distress radiating from her was palpable, and as she began to voice her fears, the words came out in a rush. "Do you know that he has not spoken a hasty or rude word to me in days? He does not resist me. _Me_. His squire! His servant! Whom can he bend to his will, if not his own servant? And yet he turns meek at a single sharp word from me!"

"I wouldn't call Boromir meek, precisely."

She brushed that away with a peremptory wave, then began to wring her hands. "I saw how the smell of that meat sickened him. He should have flung it in the fire or bellowed at me to take it away. Instead, he tamely ate what I gave him, no matter how foul he thought it."

"Is that not what you want? To see him eat his supper?"

That brought a flicker of a melancholy smile to her troubled face. "That is what the Queen wants. I want my lord back as he was, with all his stubborn crotchets and rash words. I want the horror of these last weeks forgotten, his body mended, his thoughts turned to Gondor and his duties there. And when he teases me, laughs at my odd ways, calls me a fool, I want it to be because he has _won_, not because he draws back from hurting me."

Merry reached across the small table to place a hand on her arm, squeezing it in sympathy. "Perhaps he's simply too tired to fight. Even a man as strong as Boromir can reach the end of his endurance. If he surrenders to your will, perhaps it's because he knows he can trust you to make the right decisions and pick the right battles for him."

"I am only a foundling brat, turned squire. It is not my place to pick the Steward's battles or impose my will upon him."

"Nonsense," Merry said, bracingly. "You are one of Boromir's closest friends and the person he depends upon the most. Who better to guide him now?"

Gil shook her head and, pulling awkwardly from Merry's clasp, turned to stare blindly into the fire. The sight of her distress troubled him as her ranting about meekness and surrender could not. "You are truly worried about him, aren't you?"

She spoke without turning to meet his eyes. "I have been his faithful squire and guide since the day I first donned this livery. I have been happy beyond my dearest hopes, Merry, and I prayed in my heart that it would never change. But is has changed; _he_ has changed. The way he treats me. The way he speaks to me. Everything is different, and it frightens me."

Merry did not know what to say to this. He pondered her words, her fears, as he bid her goodnight, finished his meal and smoked his evening pipe. He was still pondering them when he left his own chamber and went down the passage to Boromir's door. Giving it a single, warning tap, he pushed it open and slipped into the room.

Boromir sat quietly in his bed, leaning back against a heap of pillows, doing nothing in particular so that Merry might have suspected that he was asleep had he not known his friend's habits so well. Boromir always waited for Merry after supper, unable to relax enough to sleep without the halfling near him. They spent a companionable hour or two together, talking, listening to the sound of the wind or rain against the window shutters, remembering, until both Man and Hobbit were ready for sleep. It was the most pleasant time of day for Merry and, he suspected, for Boromir as well.

"Hullo, Boromir," he said cheerfully, crossing to the bed and clambering up onto the high mattress. "Did you enjoy your supper?"

Boromir lifted his head to glare in the Hobbit's direction and snorted with disgust. "I need not ask if you enjoyed yours, so long has it taken you to eat it."

"Gil stopped by for a visit." Merry hesitated, then added, "You upset her very much."

"What have I done, now?" the Steward demanded in exasperation.

Merry laughed. "You ate your supper a little too readily, it seems. She thinks you're going into a decline."

"Devil take the wench, there is no pleasing her," Boromir grumbled, settling his head back into the pillow once more.

From this close, Boromir looked a trifle sick, as if the mutton had not agreed with him, but otherwise entirely himself. His growling responses reassured the Hobbit, driving away visions of his friend pining away into a premature dotage. Whatever had caused the change in his behavior toward Gil, it was not meekness or surrender. Not even simple weariness, if Merry was any judge.

Crossing his legs and settling comfortably into his usual place beside his friend, Merry shot Boromir a measuring look and asked, with seeming innocence, "You mean to please Gil, then, by bending to her will?"

"I mean only to keep the peace," Boromir said, sounding more than a little peeved. "I am beset with her champions, all urging me to be kind to her, to have a care for her feelings, to reward her faithfulness with soft words – as if Gil wants soft words from me!"

"She does not," Merry interjected firmly. "You would do better to ignore the well-meant meddling of her many champions and treat her as you always have."

Boromir sighed, a frown creasing his brow. "That is what she wants, I know, but I fear I cannot give it to her."

"Why not?"

"I have changed, Merry, and Gil has changed, though she does not see it. I hold her dearer than any treasure or crown, and I would gladly give her aught that she asks of me. But how can I wipe away the pain of these months and forget all that has happened, even for her?"

"You can't, of course."

"How, then, am I to give back to her the Boromir she has served and loved so faithfully?"

Merry gazed at him for a long, quiet moment, then said, "You have figured out that much, at least."

"I am not a fool, Merry."

"Not most of the time," the hobbit retorted, "but I was beginning to wonder how long you could live side-by-side with Gil and not see how she feels."

Boromir turned a wry smile on him and said, "A man of honor does not look for love in his servants."

"Gil is not a servant!"

"She would tell you otherwise."

"And you listen to her? Now you _are_ being a fool," Merry snapped.

Boromir sighed and appeared to sink more deeply into the pillow. "Mayhap I am."

"Boromir, why don't…" Merry began, but he broke off in sudden embarrassment. He thought he understood what had prompted Boromir's sigh, what had altered his manner toward Gil, and what prevented him from going back to their comfortable ways of the past, and if a Hobbit was any judge of the hearts of Men, it had nothing to do with his suffering at the hands of the Orcs. Merry also understood, as he had not before, what had frightened Gil so much. He understood, and he pitied her, for he could see no way back for either of them.

Reaching out to take his friend's hand in a familiar, comfortable gesture of affection, Merry fell to thinking.

"Is it a clear night?" Boromir asked some uncounted time later, startling Merry out of his reverie.

The hobbit looked toward the open window, where he could see a square of night sky and stars glimmering through thin veils of cloud. "For the moment. More rain is coming soon, I think."

"Will you walk with me, Little One? I feel the need of open sky and the stars' music."

"Are you sure you can walk so far?"

Boromir smiled. "If you will lend me your support."

Merry still hesitated, not sure that he should encourage the injured man to wander about the hilltop on a winter's night, but Boromir's smile and the steady clasp of his hand wore down the hobbit's resistance. "I'm sure the lady Arwen would not approve."

"'Twas she who sent me a plate of mutton for my supper. She has forfeited any right to my allegiance." This forced a laugh from the hobbit, and Boromir's smile widened into a grin of triumph. "Come, Merry, let us enjoy the night and each other's company. Bring your pipe."

"You don't want to smell my smoke!" Merry protested, even as he slid off the bed to fetch Boromir's warmest clothing.

"The wind will blow it away, ere it can poison me with evil dreams."

Surrendering to a will stronger than his own and a love that could deny his friend nothing, Merry helped the Steward dress for the cold, then he ran to his own chamber for his cloak, pipe and pouch full of Longbottom Leaf. He returned to find Boromir standing beside the bed, leaning on the tall walking stick Arwen had provided for him. He looked so much like the man who had set out from Rivendell to tramp the leagues of Eriador and Wilderland with the rest of the Fellowship, that Merry was almost surprised to see the black cloth covering his eyes. It seemed for a moment as if the years had fallen away, and Boromir of Gondor was whole and hale again.

Then Boromir took a painful step toward him, leaning heavily on his staff and reaching a hand out to find him in the darkness, and the vision passed. Merry bounded up beside him, happily accepting the weight of his hand, and they started for the door.

"You have grown taller, Merry."

"It is the Ent draughts," Merry laughed. "Pippin and I drank with Treebeard, when we visited his ent-house near Isengard, and you see the result!"

"I must cease calling you Little One, for soon you will be as tall as a Man."

"I would still be Little One to you, were I as tall as the King himself. Lean on me, Boromir. I won't break."

"Indeed, you will not. Lead on, my dear Merry. The stars await us."

*** *** ***

The Haradrim chose a moonless night of mists and fogs in which to launch their attack. the stars were veiled, wrapped in a dank shroud that allowed no glimmer of light to touch the breast of Anduin, sliding between her sleeping banks. They came in skin coracles, small boats, rafts built of scorched logs taken from the garrison forts, any craft that could float and carry a man, his armor and his weaponry. In muffled silence they poured across the River to fetch up on the narrow strip of sand and gravel that ran along the water's edge. There they tied their boats to the bushes that trailed their roots in the water or, where no better moorage could be found, to one another and then clambered from boat to boat to gain the shore.

A dozen of the most seaworthy of these craft made straight for the beach below the ravine. There, they disgorged half a hundred warriors, all tall men with gaudily-painted armor and many tokens of victory dangling from their spears. The tallest and fiercest of these wore a helmet adorned with fantastic spikes and horns, and gold gleamed at his throat, ears and wrists. Even the dark braids of hair hanging from beneath his helm were woven with gold.

This great chieftain was the first to set foot on the beach and the first to scale the steep bed of the ravine. He it was who led the assault on the fortifications, hurling himself against their earthen battlements and clawing a way over them to bring his curved blade against the necks of the hapless defenders. Men of Gondor fell, and Men of Harad swarmed up the ravine to follow their chieftain through the breach. By the time the men landed to the north reached the beachhead, the fortifications were theirs, and no sword stood between them and the wide fields of Gondor.

The Haradrim, led by the gold-bedecked champion, marched away from the River before the first blush of dawn had touched the sky to the east. They gave no thought to the boats left tied to the shore – the boats that offered their only means of escape should their attack fail – nor to the slaughtered defenders left lying upon the battlements behind them. They did not stay to count the dead and so did not realize that most of the bodies they left to rot were no longer there when the sun rose.

From his perch atop the fortifications, Legolas the Elf watched the boats streaming across Anduin, and his sharp eyes could count the very knobs upon the invaders' armor in spite of the darkness. He watched them land, listened to their attempts at stealth as they moved down the shore, and counted the number of the enemy as accurately as if watching them parade before him in bright daylight. When the assault came, he paused to dispatch a few Haradrim, then, as ordered by Aragorn, slipped away to find his horse and ride for the King's bivouac. So word came to Aragorn of the exact number of the enemy troops and the success of his trap.

The sun rose in a sea of mist, turning the world a soft, shadowless grey, to find the Haradrim marching triumphantly away from the Great River. Their march took them westward, through glades and thickets netted with silver dew where naught challenged them, and not even the birds marked their passing, so quiet and still were the fields of Lebennin on that winter dawn. As they came down from the rocky highland through which Anduin cut and onto the wide, tilled farmland behind, they turned south, planning to circle behind the pickets posted nigh to the River and come upon the King's army unawares. They moved with great speed, more like to a company of Orcs than of Men, trampling the dry grasses with their heavy boots and hacking at anything in their path for the joy of watching it fall.

An hour after sunrise, the mists were thinning and turning to gold, when the Haradrim reached a kind of bottleneck. A small woodland crowded their ranks upon the west, while the final bulwark of the highlands to the east thrust stony fingers across their path. The great chieftain who strode at the head of the army did not slow his pace, secure in the knowledge that the Men of Gondor knew naught of his march and would not dare to bar his passage if they did. Behind his cruel mask, his black eyes were bright with the lust of battle and hard with contempt for an enemy that had proved itself so pitifully weak.

The Haradrim had nearly passed through the narrow defile between rock and wood when Aragorn sprang his trap. Archers suddenly leapt up along the stony ridge and sent a rain of deadly arrows into the packed ranks of southrons. Horsemen galloped from the wood, swords flashing in the new light, to cut off their retreat and ride down the rearguard in blood and ruin. On the wide plain beyond, the chieftain found himself assailed by the very army he had not believed would dare to challenge him. And at the head of that army rode a man with no standard above him, no guard about him, but who wore his kingship like a crown of flame upon his brow and wielded a sword more fell than the sorceries of the Black Land. An Elf and a Dwarf rode on his right, and upon his left a Prince of Men with the blood of the Eldar in his veins and death in his hand.

The Men of Harad did not break and run; they had no where to go and no means of escape. Their only hope was to fight as they had always fought, with no thought of retreat or defeat, crazed with bloodlust and the fierce joy of battle. Long and hard the Men of Gondor struggled to reclaim that bloody field, and dearly did they pay for it, ere Prince Imrahil cut down the last banner around which the fiercest champions rallied. Among the heaped dead, the great chieftain of the Haradrim hurled himself at Imrahil, but the Prince hacked through his wrist and sent both his fell hand and smoking sword tumbling into the dirt. Disarmed and grievously wounded, the southron could fight no more and suffered himself to be dragged away to join the remnant of his army, now prisoners of Gondor's King.

It was not yet midday, and the battle was done. Aragorn sent messengers south to bring the news to Ciryon, then he rode over the field to count the dead and assess his victory. Beside him rode Legolas, Gimli and Imrahil, all unhurt but all weary and grim-faced, their eyes bleak as they gazed upon the piled bodies of friend and enemy alike.

The army of Harad was destroyed, nearly two-thirds of its number dead and most of the rest injured in some manner. Aragorn's losses were less, but heavy still, and he begrudged the cruel Haradrim every drop of Gondor's blood spilled upon her land. There was no mercy in his heart when he rode up to where the prisoners sat and lay in a huddled, miserable mass near the edge of the wood.

Eyeing them coldly, he gave orders for food and water to be brought and field dressings offered to the injured. "Sort out the leaders and bring them to my camp. Do the same with the dead, once you have succored the wounded and sorted the bodies. I want to see every captain, chieftain and champion that marched with this army, dead or alive. Do you understand?"

Imrahil bowed and said, "I will undertake this labor. I know their manner of dress and rank, and I can find the leaders for you."

Aragorn nodded his thanks and, wheeling his mount, rode back to the tents where his healing skill was so desperately needed. When the moon had sunk into a bank of mist over the western vales and the battlefield lay in weary darkness, the King at last left his labors among the wounded and returned to his own encampment. There he cast himself down on his pallet and slept like one of the dead piled upon the field, taking no heed to the group of prisoners under guard outside his tent.

Morning brought another pale, watery sunrise, and Aragorn arose with the first light to greet a messenger from Ciryon who galloped up on a lathered horse before the King and his companions had shaken off the remnants of sleep and broken their fast. The messenger leapt from his horse and dropped to one knee before Aragorn, offering him a scroll sealed with the leaping fish of Ethir Anduin. Aragorn broke the seal and quickly scanned the few lines inked on the parchment.

Turning a grin of triumph on Legolas and Gimli, he offered them the letter. "Ciryon has won the day! He holds both keep and wharf, and the main army of the Haradrim is beaten back."

"His losses are light, compared to ours," Legolas said.

"Aye, but some hundreds of the enemy fled back across the River," Gimli growled. "That is ill news."

"Mayhap that is why his losses were so few. The Haradrim could retreat, so they fought with less ferocity." Aragorn gazed thoughtfully at the middle distance, pondering this news, then snapped his fingers and exclaimed, "We will pursue them across Anduin and finish them! I will not leave the enemy camped upon our borders, even in such small numbers or with winter coming apace to starve them out. This war has dragged on for far too long already, and I'll see it done."

Legolas flashed a smile at him and asked, hopefully, "Do we take ship at once?"

"Nay," Aragorn laughed, "not so soon, I'm afraid. We have much to do on this side of the River, before we deal with the other."

"Speaking of which," Gimli interjected, "the most pressing task to my mind is breakfast. If I am to spend my day burying corpses or carting wounded southward, I must have a proper meal to fortify me."

"Will cold meats and ale serve?" Aragorn asked.

"Admirably."

Before the King could summon a servant to fetch the meal, they all heard the guard outside speak a challenge and a familiar voice answer. Then Prince Imrahil ducked inside and bowed to the three companions.

"I beg your pardon for intruding, my lord, but I have brought the prisoners as you commanded. The dead have been sorted, as well, and those I deem of high rank laid out for your inspection."

"Ah, that is well!" Aragorn clasped Imrahil's arm in gratitude and headed for the tent opening, breakfast forgotten. "Bring Taleris to me."

Legolas and Gimli followed Aragorn from the tent, while Imrahil hurried to his own pavilion, where Taleris stayed under the Prince's vigilant eye.

Aragorn found a score or more of prisoners lying on the grass outside his tent, surrounded by soldiers of his household guard and lashed together on a long tether. None now wore their fantastic armor or carried standards strung with trophies as was their wont, but all bore signs of high rank and great prowess in war. As Aragorn walked slowly down the line, gazing at each in turn, they glared sullenly back at him from eyes circled with black and red paint and bunched the great muscles in their scarred arms as if gripping the hilt of a curved sword to hack and maim him. He said naught, offering no threats or promises, but took in each face and made his own judgments as to who had truly led this assault and who had followed in the hope of slaughter or plunder.

Imrahil returned quickly with Taleris in tow. The traitorous lord had remained safely in Imrahil's camp throughout the battle and now looked both well rested and well fed. His clothes were rich, his beard trimmed and his hands clean. But still he wore the chains upon his wrists that Aragorn had refused to strike off, and as he walked through the bustling camp full of soldiers, he tried to hide his shameful burden in the folds of his surcote.

As he drew near to the King, Aragorn called out to him, "Come, my lord, it is time to redeem your promise. Look upon these men, living and dead, and tell me who it was conspired with you to rape my lands and slay my people."

Taleris looked from the ragged line of prisoners, now being dragged to their feet by the guards, to the row of silent corpses laid out upon the grass beyond, and ducked his head.

"Will you do your duty and earn your measure of mercy, Taleris, or will you betray Gondor and Gondor's King even now?"

"I will do it," Taleris answered dully.

Without waiting for permission from Aragorn, he moved first to the row of cold corpses and looked carefully at each still, ghastly face. When he had studied them all, he shook his head and turned to the prisoners. Aragorn saw his shoulders stiffen, saw the reluctance in him to face these living men with his double treachery, and he understood Taleris' eagerness to find Gabril among the dead, first. Had Gabril died upon the field, Taleris might have pointed to his body and walked away, without ever meeting the eyes of those he had helped to this dismal end.

Face them he must, however, so he did it rapidly, striding down the line of bound men until caught and held by one fierce, black, hate-filled gaze. Halting in his tracks, he nodded toward the prisoner and snarled, "That is your man."

Aragorn stepped up behind Taleris to look at the man who had cost him so much in blood and pain. He was small for a chieftain of the Haradrim, shorter than Aragorn by more than a head, but the old battle scars upon his body and the gold he wore proclaimed him a great champion. His right hand was gone, struck off at the wrist, and half a dozen fresh wounds showed through the rents in his clothing, yet he stood tall and met Aragorn's measuring eyes proudly. He did not appear to feel his wounds or to notice his ragged, filthy, bloodstained condition. He might have been decked out in ornate armor, with a scimitar in his hand and a jeweled standard above his head, to judge by his bearing.

For a long moment grey eyes met black, and neither man backed down. At last Aragorn spoke, his voice hard as adamant. "Does Taleris speak the truth? Are you the one who calls himself Gabril?" The southron said naught but looked away, unable to hold the King's eyes longer. "Are you the man who crept, disguised, into my city to win a war by foul treachery and murder that you could not win by force of arms? Speak now and tell me, are you he? Or keep silence and die for him, be you he or no. Die at a traitor's word."

The contempt in Aragorn's tone stiffened the prisoner's back and brought his head up sharply. Eyes snapping with hate and fury, he hissed, "I do not fear death! Do as you will, King of Gondor!"

"So be it." Turning to Imrahil, Aragorn said, "Put him in chains and place guards upon him. He will return to the keep with us, where I will have him executed before our combined armies. I want every soldier who fought and bled this day for Gondor to see him die."

Imrahil nodded toward the line of bound men. "And these?"

"Put them with the rest of the prisoners. I will decide their fate ere we ride south."

As the King headed toward his tent and his breakfast, Taleris called out to his retreating back, "And what of me, King Elessar? What is to be my fate?"

Aragorn halted and fixed cold, emotionless eyes upon the other man. "You have done your duty. Your family, estates, and noble name will not suffer for your treachery, though you have caused the most profound suffering to all Gondor. I keep my word, Lord Taleris, even in this."

"You will not parade me before the army in chains, or have me bare my neck to the headsman?"

"Nay."

"How, then, am I to die?"

"I must take counsel with Lord Ciryon and with Prince Imrahil, those whom you have most injured with your betrayal, and together, we will decide the manner of your death. But be comforted, my lord. You have earned your measure of mercy."

Taleris bowed his head, and his stooped shoulders began to shake. Aragorn watched him in silence for a moment, knowing that the tired, broken old man was weeping and finding no pity in himself. Without a word, he turned and ducked into his tent.

*** *** ***

It was raining again. Boromir had grown heartily sick of the sound of rain over the last weeks, bringing as it did the promise of another day shut up in the Golden Hall with no chance of smelling free air or feeling the wind upon his face. He had lain in his bed all day, listening to the storm raging against the closed window shutters, growing ever more restless and irritable, until desperation drove him out of his room. Now he paced the chill passages of Meduseld, leaning upon Gil's shoulder and his tall staff, hounded ever by the stink of torches and the incessant drumming of the rain.

Gil guided him down two shallow steps, gripping his arm tightly to help him navigate this small but painful obstacle, then started along yet another hallway. He felt the touch of cold, wet air upon his face, heard wind rattling heavy shutters, and knew that they had come once more to his favorite spot inside the Hall. This corridor ran along the outer wall, with chambers on the one hand and a row of large, deepset windows on the other. In good weather, the windows stood open to the wide hilltop terrace, and stone benches set in the embrasures gave him a pleasant seat on which to rest his aching limbs. Even in bad weather, with the windows closed, Boromir felt nearer to freedom here. The eddies of winter air that crept around the shutters cut the smell of smoke and allowed him to breathe more easily.

"Are you tired, my lord?" Gil asked, when Boromir slowed his pace.

"Nay. I am enjoying the fresh air."

Gil made no answer, merely turning away her head and matching her steps to his more precisely. She had grown more taciturn of late, rarely speaking unless prodded and never offering an opinion. Boromir could not remember the last time she had chided him for his temper. He missed the sound of her voice, and her unwonted silence formed a strange heaviness about his heart.

They had covered half the length of the hallway, when a new set of footsteps approached. Boromir recognized the clatter of heavily booted feet on stone and the scrape of riding leathers, but the intruder did not move like a man of Rohan. His stride was heavier and firmer than that of the light-footed Rohirrim. He was nearly running as he came down the two steps that Boromir had taken so painfully.

"Boromir!"

The Steward whirled around in surprise, nearly losing his balance and clutching at Gil for support. He knew that voice better than his own and had longed to hear it again through many a lonely day of his exile. "Faramir?"

"Aye, Brother!" Faramir sprinted up to him and threw his arms about Boromir, embracing him warmly. Boromir laughed as he dropped his staff to return the embrace, and Faramir laughed with him, both men shaken with the joy of this meeting. Stepping slightly away, Faramir caught his brother's arms and held them tightly enough to hurt, but Boromir did not protest. "Ah, Boromir, it heals my heart to see you so well!"

Boromir grinned teasingly at him. "You did not believe my letters? You feared I was spinning pretty tales for you, while I languished upon a bed of pain?"

"Nay." He tightened his grip for a moment in an excess of unspoken feeling. "Nay, but it is one thing to read the words, written in another's hand, and an entirely different thing to see you before me, on your feet, walking, laughing… I never thought…" He broke off in confusion, tears thickening his voice.

"Enough, little brother, or we will both grow maudlin. I am healing, as you see, thanks to Aragorn and Arwen and Merry and my ever-faithful Gil. You need have no fears for me. But what brings you to Rohan in such foul weather? You have not taken the time even to put off your wet clothing or wash the smell of horses from you, so you must be in some haste. What news do you bring?"

"All good!" Faramir assured him. "Elessar sends word from Lebennin that the Haradrim are defeated, their armies broken and their chieftains his prisoners. He has executed the man who conspired with Lord Taleris and put the other survivors aboard a ship for Harad, stripped of arms, armor and honor. The war is all but won!"

Boromir laughed again. "Was there ever a doubt that Aragorn would bring us victory? You need not have ridden so far to tell me this, but I am glad to see you, whatever your errand." He clapped Faramir on the shoulder. Then, catching his arm, he turned the younger man about and stepped up beside him. "Lend me your shoulder as far as my chamber, and tell me all that you know. How did Aragorn order the battle? What of Legolas and Gimli? Which of them slew the greater number of Haradrim in this new contest?"

"Stay!" Faramir cried, torn between dismay and amusement. "Before I can tell you aught, you must tell me where we are going! I do not know the way to your chamber, having come straight here from Éomer's presence."

"Gil will lead us."

Gil promptly moved from the window embrasure, where she had retreated upon Faramir's arrival, to her usual place at Boromir's side. She placed Boromir's staff in his outstretched hand, then she said, at her most wooden, "If you will follow me, my lords."

Faramir started after her, with Boromir leaning heavily upon his shoulder and the staff, dragging his left leg as he struggled to keep up with them. He was more tired than he had realized, and standing still in the chill winter air had stiffened his injured leg alarmingly.

Faramir immediately slowed his own steps and said, his voice full of concern, "Shall we not find a place to sit and talk in comfort? Your wound must pain you."

"It always pains me, but that is no matter. I will rest the better and listen to your news with more pleasure in my own bed."

"Why are you not there even now? When Éomer told me that you were wandering about on such a night, in the cold and the wet, I thought him mad."

Boromir chuckled. "The Lady Arwen commands me to walk, and so I must walk. When I protest, she threatens me with Aragorn's wrath and demands an extra lap about the Hall. Do not let her lofty, Elvish ways and caressing voice fool you, Little Brother. She has a heart of cold iron, our gentle Queen."

Faramir maintained a doubting silence, causing Boromir to wonder if he had offended the younger man, though he did not think his brother could have missed the warm affection in his voice when he spoke of the Queen. Faramir held all of the Elvish race in such esteem that it bordered on reverence, and Arwen's place as Elessar's queen only elevated her further in his eyes. He would not understand how any man might tease or spar with such a creature, nor how Arwen herself might allow it.

They reached the end of the corridor, climbed the stairs, and turned their backs on the row of shuttered windows and the muffled drumming of the rain. Boromir's chamber was close now, and he could count the steps to its door. He could not quite smother a sigh of relief when he took that last step and heard Gil push the door open upon its brass hinges. A blast of heat struck him in the face, telling him that the servants had been stoking the fire without instructions from him. Bracing himself against the familiar shudder of revulsion that came with the smell of burning, he stepped into the room.

Faramir guided him to the bed and helped him sit down upon the mattress. Gil approached with a goblet of mulled wine, which she handed to him as she relieved him of his staff. She offered Faramir another goblet, but he murmured refusal and turned his attention to pulling off Boromir's boots. Gil hovered nearby, palpably distressed by having another – and a Prince, at that – usurp her role, but unwilling to voice a protest in front of Faramir.

Boromir offered her a smile of understanding and said, "I can manage, with my brother's help. Get you to your bed, Gil, and tell Merry not to wait up on my account. You might take him a cup of wine, however, to warm him and help him sleep."

Gil stepped back, bowed and murmured, "As you will, my lord Steward. My lord Prince." Then she turned on her heel and strode out of the room. Boromir heard the door thud shut.

For a moment, Faramir knelt on the floor at his feet, all movement arrested in surprise. Then he tugged once more on Boromir's boot and asked, "What ails your squire?"

Boromir frowned at the shut door, hearing again Gil's distant voice and retreating steps. "She has grown moody and quiet of late. Mayhap she pines for Minas Tirith and a rest from nursing duties."

"No doubt you are right."

Boromir heard the note of feigned innocence in his brother's voice and turned a pointed scowl upon him. "If you think I have done something to upset my squire, say it outright!"

"I? How should I think anything of the kind? And what business is it of mine what occurs between you and your servants?"

Boromir grunted sourly and started tugging at his heavy outer clothing. Faramir quite wisely did not offer his assistance, but waited until Boromir had unclasped and cast aside his various unwanted layers and climbed beneath the heavy blankets piled on the bed. Then he pulled a chair up close to Boromir's left hand and settled into it.

"Are you comfortable? Is there aught that I can do for you?"

"Nay, I am well enough. Give me all the news from Lebennin and from home. But first, tell me of our friends and kinsmen. Were any lost or wounded?"

"Cuts and bruises only. Legolas and Gimli killed prodigious numbers of the enemy, coming through unscathed themselves, and Imrahil brought down a great chieftain of the Haradrim, the very man who bought Taleris' loyalties. All are unhurt. But I begin at the end!"

With that, Faramir picked up the tale of the war with Aragorn's arrival in Minas Tirith and regaled his brother with every detail he had gleaned from letters and dispatches. Boromir interrupted him frequently to demand details Faramir could not give and vent his own frustration with being left so very far behind when his king and his people went to war.

Faramir ended by saying, "One stronghold of the enemy remains on the eastern shore. They have fortified the northernmost garrison, building a redoubt and manning its walls with those who escaped the battle."

"Aragorn must take it," Boromir stated. "He will not leave a nest of Haradrim on our borders."

"He purposes to attack the redoubt before the year's end, burn out the remaining enemy, and secure or destroy the garrison forts."

"He might have done so already. In the days it took you to ride here, word may have come of his final victory."

"I thought you would want to hear of the war from my lips." Faramir sounded aggrieved. "Would you rather I had stayed kicking my heels in Minas Tirith and sent a letter to you in my stead?"

"Nay, Little Brother, I am glad you are come. But I chafe at these long delays – waiting for letters to travel from Ethir Anduin to Minas Tirith, and then from Minas Tirith to Edoras. The miles are long, and the time weighs heavily upon me." When Faramir said naught, only sat in a gloomy silence, Boromir smiled wryly at him. "It chafes you, too, does it not? Waiting for news of battles you ought to be fighting?"

The other man stirred uncomfortably in his chair but answered evenly, "I am content to fill my brother's boots for a time and do my king's bidding."

"Aye, you sound most content."

"I must be. In truth, had Elessar given me a choice, I would have gone south with the army of Anórien or joined Beregond in defending Ithilien's borders, but he did not give me a choice, and mayhap that is for the best. My choices have too oft proved ill."

Boromir turned a frowning gaze upon him. "What mean you by that?"

Faramir seemed only then to realize what he had said. Giving an awkward laugh, he drew himself up straight in the chair and said, "Do not regard it. I must be more tired than I thought, and my tongue is running away with me."

Boromir's frown deepened at the sorrow lurking behind the other man's brittle tone. "Your tongue never runs away with you, Faramir. You never speak without a purpose. Pretend it is weariness makes you careless, if you will, but do not pretend your words are empty."

"Mayhap they are not. Mayhap…" Faramir hesitated, his breathing harsh and quick in the sudden quiet, then he sighed and said, "I have long sought for the right words to bridge this gulf between us and unburden myself to you. Mayhap this is the time."

"Faramir." Boromir held out his hand, waiting for his brother to take it. When he felt the familiar clasp about his wrist, he closed his own upon the other man's arm. "There is naught between us but the love we share. Unburden yourself, and do not worry about what words you choose."

"I have been a poor brother to you, and I am sorry for it."

Boromir raised his eyebrows above the edge of the ever-present bandage, but he said naught, waiting for Faramir to go on.

"I say that I am sorry, and I am. More sorry than words can truly express. But it will never be enough to lift this weight from me, or to do away with my regret and shame."

As his brother spoke, Boromir heard the gnawing pain in his voice, reminding him of another time when guilt had poisoned his very thoughts and wrapped his heart in shadow. The memory made him shiver.

"You have done me no injury," Boromir said.

Faramir uttered a sour grunt of laughter with no humor in it, and he released Boromir's hand to throw himself back in his chair, distancing himself from the man in the bed. "You say that, lying there, with a bandage over your eyes and a hole in your leg the size of Merry's head."

"The one Saruman gave me, the other a band of Orcs. You are to blame for neither."

"I did not wound you with my own hand, but with my ill choices, my selfishness…"

"Enough, Brother. This is folly. I took the road Imladris against your protests and our father's, imposing my will upon you both. What befell me on that journey is laid entirely at my door. As for the Orcs." Boromir shook his head in disgust. "Had I stayed in Minas Tirith or in Rohan, where I belonged, I should never have run afoul of Uglúk.

"But you know all of this." He turned his piercing, bandaged gaze upon his brother and insisted, "Your conscience is overly nice, but so is your sense of justice. You would not punish any other man for my actions, so why punish yourself?"

A restless stirring came from the chair, and another sigh more weary than the last. When Faramir spoke, he sounded as if the words were dragged from him, tearing at his throat as they passed. "I did you great wrong, Boromir. I doubted you. I let the whispers of others cloud my eyes, and I dared to place myself in judgment over you. My brother. My Steward and liege lord. I thought even to claim your birthright for myself, when Imrahil offered it to me."

"But you did not," Boromir reminded him gently.

"The words of others stayed me. I listened to the halfling, to Éowyn, and to Elessar. But not to you. At my own urging, you tried to tell me what was in your mind and heart, but I did not hear it. I was too consumed with the fears planted in me by others and by my own mistaken pride. Duty, I called it. Gondor's weal. But it was all pride, the very pride I have so often decried in you."

"Whatever the path you took, you arrived at wisdom in the end. You stood before the Council and renounced the Stewardship, handing it to me with your love and fealty. That is a gift I will not forget, Faramir."

"Aye! After I had wounded you to the quick! And that was only the first of my follies. How often have I thought of myself as your protector? Wiser and stronger than you, simply because I can see the flagstones beneath my feet? Is this wisdom? I deemed you too weak to shoulder the burdens of Stewardship. When you proved me wrong, I then decided that you were too vulnerable to bear arms, to lead men, to take the reins of State, and as you mastered each task, scaled each barrier, I smugly congratulated myself upon guiding your faltering steps. Boromir, I have treated you like a child and told myself it was out of love for a helpless brother! Even now, as I tell you these things, I choke on my pride, for I see that you are the wiser and the stronger man and I am, once again, the little brother who comes to you for succor."

Boromir listened to this outpouring of guilt in startled silence, unable to muster his thoughts to interrupt it.

"How you must despise me!" Faramir cried, now thoroughly caught up in his wrenching confession and seeming oblivious to Boromir's presence. "First I belittle your strength and skill, then I abandon you to rule unaided, while I wander through the wilds of Eriador, dreaming of lost ages and long-dead heroes! Where was my duty to protect you then? Where was my much-vaunted wisdom, when I forgot my brother's weal to satisfy my childish longings?"

"Wait!" Boromir protested, finding his voice at last and cutting off the flow of Faramir's impassioned words. "You must choose, Brother, what guilt you own. If you have failed me by doubting my strength and ability, then you cannot also injure me by giving me the chance to try that strength. Are you to blame for cosseting me, or for allowing me to wander, hapless, into the clutches of the Orcs?"

"I am to blame for forfeiting your love."

The words fell like lead between them, leaving a heavy, aching silence in their wake. Boromir listened to it for a moment, hearing the sincerity of this last, agonized confession and recognizing it as the true wellspring of all the suffering Faramir had inflicted upon himself for his brother's sake.

Holding out his hand once more, he said, with quiet certainty, "You have not, nor could you, so long as we both draw breath."

Faramir did not take the offered hand but rather seemed to retreat farther into his chair. When he spoke, his voice rasped painfully in the stillness of the room. "I was with the King's Company when he found you after your escape from the Orc den. I sat in his tent and listened to your breathing as you slept, praying with all my strength that the sound would not stop, that you would not leave me again. And when you awoke…" He drew a shaking breath, his throat thick with unshed tears, and finished doggedly, "I heard Aragorn's name upon your lips."

"Ah." Boromir's hand dropped to the coverlet, and his blind gaze fixed on his own toes. "Are you jealous of my love for Aragorn?"

"Nay, for I know well how deserving he is of that love. I only wish that I had been as worthy." Boromir opened his mouth to protest, but Faramir hastily cut him off. "I was there, Brother. I heard you call for Aragorn, and I saw the relief in your face when you knew he was beside you. My presence could not give you such comfort, brother though I am, nor my hands heal your wounds. 'Tis not a token of mine that you wear, even now, by your heart. Nor was I the one to sense your danger and bring a band of Men riding through the pathless wilderness to find you. I have been supplanted in your love, and I cannot blame anyone but myself! But I can tell you that I am sorry for the weakness, pride and selfishness that brought us to this place."

"That I love Aragorn like a brother I will not deny. Our bond was forged in the dungeons of Isengard and is as strong, as enduring as the very stones of that ancient citadel."

"You need not tell me," Faramir said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice.

"But you _are_ my brother, Faramir, and no love I feel for Aragorn, or for any other creature, can lessen that bond. Do you love me the less for having found a wife, fathered a son, or given your fealty to the King?"

"Nay."

"Then why may I not love my King, my friends, even my cantankerous squire, without diminishing my love for you, my true brother?"

"Because I have betrayed that love and broken faith with you."

Boromir laughed harshly. "And I have not? You forget my failings more quickly than your own, I deem."

"Do not make light of this," Faramir snapped, his tone hardening.

"I speak of my betrayal of the Fellowship and the failure of my quest. Think you I would ever make light of such things?"

"Nay, nay." Faramir's anger subsided once more into brooding misery. "I am sorry. I should not have spoken so, should not have burdened you with any of this. I am thrice a fool for ever opening my mouth!"

"For pity's sake!" Boromir exploded, throwing his hands up in disgust. "I may be blind and crippled, Brother, but I am not yet so fragile that a few words will crush me. You have unloaded your great burden of guilt upon me, and yet here I am, unbowed, so do not hold back now. If you are angry, say it. If you are jealous, admit it. If you have yet more failings to expose, tell the tale now and be done. For this night, I will let you lacerate yourself to your heart's content and place it on my account. But when you walk out that door, I am done with nursing your queasy conscience."

Faramir gave a shaky laugh and said, "Now you sound like my brother."

"Angry and impatient?"

"Aye. It is a welcome change. It puts me on familiar ground."

"You and Gil, you are a pretty pair. Never happy unless you have me in a rage." He went on quickly, before Faramir pounced upon Gil as a distraction. "But let us return to the matter at hand. What further crimes do you have to charge yourself with?"

"Naught," Faramir assured him, "you have heard it all."

"You do not blame yourself for Taleris' treachery? For the plots of the Haradrim?"

"Nay."

"For Halbarad's attempt on my life?"

"Well, I should not have left you alone with him," the younger man murmured, apologetically.

"But his hatred of me, his refusal of Aragorn's mercy… These were not your doing?"

"Nay. Boromir, you mock me when I am in deadly earnest. I have done you wrong!"

"Aye, but I have long since forgiven you."

"I know well you have. 'Tis not your forgiveness I need, but my own, and that I have not yet found."

"This night's work will help. Trust me, Little Brother, for I walked this road long ere you did, and I remember it well."

"How did you reach the end of it?"

"Frodo showed me the way, as I would show you, if you will take me as a guide."

Faramir chuckled. "How often have I acted as your guide over the last five years?"

"Turn about is fair play."

Boromir heard his brother sigh yet again, but this time, it sounded more wistful than despairing. "I do trust you, Brother, and I hope you can guide me better than I have myself. I am tired unto death and want only to rest without regrets to prick me."

"Then get you to your rest. A good night's sleep in one of Éomer's excellent beds will set you to rights. We will talk again in the morning."

"Not of guilt and forgiveness, I pray you!"

Boromir laughed and waved him toward the door. "Snuff the candle, as you go, and when you find Merry lurking in the corridor, tell him that I do not need him."

"As you will. Good night, Brother."

"Good night."

* * *

As Faramir stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him, another door to his right flew open. Merry came out, looking expectant. He caught sight of Faramir and bowed courteously.

"Hullo, Faramir," he said, abandoning courtesy for cheerful familiarity.

"Greetings, Master _Perian_."

Merry cocked his head, studying the Prince with bright, knowing eyes. "You look done in. It's hard work talking Boromir to sleep, if you're not used to it."

Faramir's answering smile was wan and weary but heartfelt. "I did not succeed in talking him to sleep, but he talked me into utter exhaustion, as you see."

The halfling's face brightened, and he trotted swiftly down the hallway to Boromir's door. "I would offer you a goblet of mulled wine and more relaxing conversation, but if Boromir is awake…"

"Nay, he said that he did not need you tonight."

"Oh." Merry dropped his hand from the latch and hesitated, pondering whether he ought to check on his friend in spite of his orders to the contrary. Then he shrugged and turned back for his own chambers. "Come, then, and share my fire with me, my lord Prince. If you are not too tired."

Faramir teetered upon the brink of refusal, wanting naught so much as a set of dry clothes and a warm bed, but then thought better of it. He had not shared private speech with Merry since his brother's return, and he was eager to hear the halfling's opinion of Boromir's progress. "I thank you. A cup of mulled wine would go down very nicely."

He followed Merry into a small, cozy chamber, dominated by a bed far too large for one little Hobbit. A chair and table stood close to the hearth, where a fire burned merrily and a flagon of wine stood for warmth. Merry gestured to the chair and said, "Please, sit down. Help yourself to a bit of cheese and fruit, if you like. I was just enjoying a bedtime snack."

Chuckling to himself, Faramir took the offered seat and pulled the tray of food over for closer inspection. Merry poured two goblets of wine and handed one to his guest, as he seated himself on the hearth to sip the other. The Hobbit and the Man both set to, enjoying a hearty late-night meal and eyeing each other thoughtfully as they did. Neither spoke until the level in their wine cups had sunk considerably and only the rinds of the cheese were left on the tray. Then Merry refilled their goblets, and Faramir settled back in his chair with a contented sigh.

"When did you arrive in Edoras?" Merry asked, by way of breaking the long, companionable silence.

"Only a few hours ago."

"And went straight to Boromir without a bath or a meal, I'll wager. Shall I send for another tray? Something more substantial that will stick to a Man of Gondor's ribs?"

"Nay," Faramir patted his stomach, "a halflings light snack is more than enough for any one Man, be he of Gondor or of lesser stock. I am well fed, and I thank you for your generous hospitality."

Merry gazed at him with twinkling eyes and opined, "When I am away from Gondor for long, I forget how formal and courteous your speech is."

Faramir laughed. "And I forget how comfortable and pleasant is the company of halflings. I feel my weariness passing away already."

"That wasn't weariness. It was hunger. Have some more wine, my lord Prince."

Faramir held out his goblet for Merry to fill it again. He meant to drink sparingly, aware of how quickly the heated wine would go to his head in his current condition, but it's warmth spread so soothingly through him that he could not resist it.

"How did you find Boromir?" Merry asked.

"I turned left at the bottom of the stair and…" He broke off, suddenly aware that the wine was loosening his tongue and making a fool of him, and he lifted his eyes to meet Merry's across the table. The halfling was most definitely laughing at him. He flushed in chagrin.

"I beg your pardon, Merry. This wine has addled my wits."

"Don't worry. I won't tell anyone that you make jokes when you're drunk."

"I am _not_ drunk! Merely a little too relaxed."

"Well, I won't tell anyone about that, either," the Hobbit assured him. "But how _did_ you find Boromir?"

"Well enough. Better than I had hoped." Faramir frowned into his drink, conjuring an image of Boromir standing in the hallway, propped up by Gil on one side and a walking stick on the other, grinning heartily in welcome and yet looking so fragile that a hard fall of rain might knock him senseless. "He is too thin."

Merry nodded agreement.

"And he is changed. His manner, his speech, the way he treats his servants."

"Do you mean Gil?"

"Aye, there is some trouble between them. I saw it at once and marked how oddly he treated her."

Merry gazed at him consideringly for a moment, then said, quietly, "Boromir has come to find that he loves Gil, and it has placed him in a terrible position."

"Loves her!" Faramir blurted out in protest, before he could stop himself.

"Yes, but he cannot act upon it, you see, or even tell Gil how he feels. And she grows every day more miserable, because she marks the change in him and fears it."

"He would not – _could_ not take such a woman as…"

"She would run away, if he tried," Merry said, matter-of-factly. "A single kind word from him sends her into a panic. Anything more would drive her to flight. Boromir knows this, and so he holds his tongue."

"To keep her by him." Faramir thought his sour disgust might choke him. "That is why he hesitates, not for the sake of his honor or his rank."

"Oh, he thinks of that, too. He knows the nobility of Gondor would never countenance Gil as his wife."

"_Wife?_" This time Faramir did choke, spraying wine across the table as he coughed and spluttered.

Merry looked at him in surprise. "You thought he might take her as his mistress?"

"That is more likely than taking her as wife, I deem!" he gasped, still struggling for air.

"Then you do not understand at all how Gil's mind works, to say nothing of your brother's."

Faramir could not repress a shudder. "It does not bear thinking of."

"Well, you needn't, because Gil would never allow it. Even if you do not trust Boromir to keep the line, you may trust Gil."

"It seems I have no choice in the matter."

"Unless you plan to march into Boromir's room and forbid him to love her."

That wrenched a laugh from Faramir and eased the knot of anxiety in his breast.

"In truth," Merry went on in a wistful tone, "I wish Boromir _could_ marry Gil. It would make him happy to have her always with him and no guard set upon his heart. But it cannot be." He sighed and sipped from his goblet. "I am terribly sorry for them both."

"You love him well, I deem."

The halfling looked up swiftly to meet Faramir's intent gaze. "He is my dearest friend."

"Almost, you make me wish that I could see my brother and his troublesome squire as you do."

A grin split Merry's brown face. "You would have to grow shorter by several feet to do that."

"I doubt your opinion of Boromir has aught to do with his great height. You do not seem the sort to be impressed by a tall man with a bright sword."

"Not by a sword, I grant you, but his height worked very much in my favor. He often carried me upon his back, when the stones of Eriador bruised my bare feet. A shorter Man could not have done so, and a lesser Man would not have deigned to do it. Boromir made light of the burden."

"Ah! I surrender! I cannot answer you, for you turn my words ever upon me!" Pushing himself to his feet, Faramir held out a hand to the Hobbit. Merry clasped it warmly, returning the pressure of his fingers and smiling up into his face. "I, too, love him well, Merry. And I, too, wish him happy."

"I know you do."

"Then we are not so far apart in this."

"No." As he led Faramir to the door and politely opened it for him, the halfling said, "I speak out of turn, my lord, and don't always show the proper respect, but I think of you as a friend."

"You honor me, Master _Perian_."

"Then you will forgive my pertness?"

"There is naught to forgive. I bid you good night, Merry, and I thank you for both your hospitality and your frankness."

"I always have plenty of both! Stop by any time."

Faramir nodded his thanks and started down the hallway toward his own chamber, his steps slowed by weariness and his head so full of all that he had heard tonight that he doubted his could bear its weight. No sooner had he disappeared around the first corner, than Merry left of his chamber and approached Boromir's door on silent Hobbit feet. He scratched once, lightly, upon the wood, then slipped through the door without waiting for an answer.

When Gil came in the next morning with the breakfast tray, she found the halfling curled in an armchair by the fire, fast asleep.

*** *** ***

"Taleris wants an audience?" Aragorn stared blankly at Imrahil, brows raised. "What can he want of me?"

"I know not, lord. He would not say. But he begs leave to speak with you at once."

With a shrug, Aragorn dropped his eyes to the dispatches before him on the table. "Bring him."

Imrahil bowed and hurried from the chamber, his booted feet clattering upon the stone stairway. Legolas, Gimli and Ciryon exchanged wary looks that signaled their distrust of Taleris' reasons for demanding the King's ear, but Aragorn did not offer them a chance to speak. The man himself would come before him soon enough, and all would be known. In the meantime, he had other work in hand.

Imrahil returned shortly with Taleris in tow, and two other men whom Aragorn did not recognize. They strode in upon Taleris' heels – tall, young men with brown beards and keen eyes, clad in the black mail of Lossarnach, with long swords at their sides and great shields slung at their backs. Aragorn eyed them in some surprise, as they crossed to the middle of the chamber and halted, bowing deeply before the King.

Nodding courteously to the strangers, Aragorn turned a questioning look on Imrahil.

"Taleris' grandsons, my lord," the Prince explained. "They rode into the fortress with the dawn, asking to speak with Lord Taleris. I saw no reason to deny them."

Turning his compelling gaze on the proud, upright figures of the two young men, Aragorn said, "By your arms and emblems, you are soldiers of Lossarnach. Your companies are camped far to the north, about the mouth of Poros. Have you your captain's leave to seek me here?"

"Aye, my lord King." The elder of the two men moved swiftly toward him, dropping to one knee before the table and offering a folded, sealed square of parchment.

Aragorn signaled for Legolas to take it. The Elf carried the paper around the table to where the King sat, breaking the seal and scanning the brief lines of script as he went.

"All is well," Legolas murmured, dropping the parchment on the table.

At another sign from Aragorn, the kneeling man rose and stepped back to join his kinfolk. The three men drew together under the pitiless gaze of the King, and Taleris, who knew well Elessar's indomitable will and implacable temper, began to shuffle his feet. None dared to break the silence, until Aragorn spoke at last, his eyes sweeping the two younger men.

"Why are you come to Ethir Anduin? To sue for Lord Taleris' life?"

"Nay, King Elessar." The elder once again spoke for them. "We know well that his life is forfeit, and we do not seek to stay your justice. We come but to stand with our grandsire, as his only kin and heirs, to hear your judgment spoken."

"That is well." To Taleris, he said, "You begged this audience, my lord. What would you ask of me?"

Taleris cleared his throat awkwardly, his eyes sliding to where his grandsons stood, then back to Aragorn's stern face. "I have done as you asked, my lord, and delivered my accomplice to you."

Aragorn nodded, his expression unreadable.

"The charge you laid upon me is fulfilled, and my death is at hand, I deem."

"It is."

"Then I would ask this of you, my King." He lifted his hands, showing Aragorn the chains he yet wore, and let a note of pleading creep into his voice. "Strike these bonds from me, put a sword in my hand, and send me across the River with Ciryon and Imrahil. Let me lead the assault on the redoubt. Let me spill the blood of our enemies to wash the stain of treason from my name, and if the Valar smile upon me, let me die there a soldier's death."

Aragorn said nothing, gazing steadily at the old lord's twisted, grief-wracked face, and Taleris lifted his hands toward him in supplication.

"I have spent my life in the service of Gondor. Three sons I lost on the Pelennor fields, a daughter in childbirth and a wife to grief. These two proud warriors," he looked to his grandsons, who watched him impassively, "are all that is left of my family. Let me die as I have lived, and do not force these children of my blood to watch me bow beneath an executioner's sword."

"You would have me endanger my troops and generals, instead? Think you that I would trust you with a sword and a clear path to the enemy's fortress? I am not such a fool, Taleris."

"Ciryon and Imrahil know of my treasons. They will strike me down in an instant, if they deem me dangerous to them or their troops, and I would expect naught else from them. Then you may stick my head on a pike and proclaim me traitor to all the lands of Gondor, and none could call you forsworn! Do but give me this chance, and I will prove myself a soldier unto the end!"

Before Aragorn could speak, Taleris' grandsons stepped forward together and dropped to their knees. "Give him leave to go, lord King, and we will serve as hostages to his honor!" the younger man cried. "If he be forsworn, then are our lives forfeit!"

"You would offer your lives as surety for the word of a traitor?" Aragorn demanded.

"Traitor he may be," the elder said, "but yet he is our grandsire and near to us in blood. We owe him our love, our allegiance, and in this extremity, our lives if he require them."

Then the younger added, "We do not doubt his word nor fear your judgment, my lord."

With a flick of his hand, Aragorn commanded them to rise. "I do not take hostages. Get you back to your company and serve Gondor well. That is where you true allegiance lies."

"What of Lord Taleris?"

Aragorn turned eyes dark with contempt upon the bowed head of his captive and snapped, "I will consider his request." To Imrahil he said, "Take him back to his tent and guard him well."

"My lord," the younger man began, but Aragorn cut him off with a swift glance.

"Say your farewells and be gone by nightfall." His face softened slightly as he looked upon their haughty yet tormented faces. "'Tis easier thus. You cannot change what is to come, and it will serve no purpose to watch it unfold."

The two men bowed, eyes downcast, and followed Taleris from the room. When all were gone, and Aragorn had only his most trusted captains about him again, Gimli asked what all were thinking.

"Will you give that treacherous swine his chance at a clean death?"

"If Ciryon and Imrahil will have him." Glancing up at Ciryon from beneath lowered brows, he prompted, "What say you, my lord?"

Ciryon grunted in disgust and kicked savagely at a chair leg, sending the unoffending piece of furniture bumping across the floor. "I long to see his guts spilled upon the grass! An honorable death in battle is too good for him!"

"Yet I have promised him such a death. If not in battle, then in some quiet way, with no shame attached to his name or blood. I do not urge you to accept him into your army; I simply ask. Will you take him?"

"Aye, if Prince Imrahil agrees. But if he so much as twitches at the wrong moment, I will take his head from his shoulders!"

"That is well."

Legolas spoke up, his tone deceptively mild. "What if Taleris should return alive, having acquitted himself well in the assault?"

The King's face hardened dangerously, and his eyes cut swiftly back to Ciryon's face. "See that he does not."

Ciryon bowed in acceptance of this command. Then, by silent agreement, they all bent once more over the pile of dispatches awaiting their attention.

_**To be continued…**_


End file.
